


Iridescence

by aleum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15347226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleum/pseuds/aleum
Summary: His windbreaker billowed around him, neck craned towards the bottom of the cliff, the taste of salt lacing his tongue. There was no hesitation when he took the last step and plunged.It’s these little things that take, take and take, until there’s nothing left more to take but ourselves.





	1. allegro

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> I’m terrible with punctuation…and writing…and editing…and updates. I’m more of a free-verse, stream of consciousness spirit. Sue me. But, please note, there are some things I purposely do that are not typos. But, don’t sue me if it pertains to borrowing Harry Potter because it belongs to J.K. Rowling and whoever makes contracts. Just a fan-fic to play around with; I’m not profiting from this. Same applies to my cover art.
> 
> *This is like practice runs for me. This egotistical writer wants to be the next Tolkein LMFAO wheezes…in my dreams. Tolkein was and is a genius. 
> 
> I want to be the next Syoji Ishimine! LMFAO Like come on. The Evil Within 2.*
> 
> Also, allow me some creative liberties.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue? Chapter...not sure? You be the judge? lol

It took an exorbitant amount of effort to rip his gaze away. He feared that even a second would make the difference. Just a little more time, just one more look. 

His cloak rippled vaguely once. Then, twice, and slowly, his whole body was angled towards the second floor where Harry was, hands leaving impressions on the fogged glass as water droplet-like tear tracks slid down the pane.

Maybe, it was a trick of the light. Maybe, it wasn’t. But, he could have sworn he saw the green-eyed boy crying.

The boy nearly pressed his face against the glass, trying to convey the emotions he so desperately desired, as if getting any closer would make him seep through the material and into the safety of the severe-looking man’s arms. Yet, despite the severity, he felt comfort emanating from the man standing in the middle of Privet Drive.

Harry only saw his lips opening slightly, muttering something to himself, and his long robes swished elegantly as light shot forth where his right hand was supposed to be. The silvery mass quivered before taking on a more corporeal form. If it made a sound, there was no doubt it would have been the gentle pitter-patter of a young doe meandering against moist pavement.

The doe clapped its front hooves lightly, followed by its back, and it sprung with the lightness of a feather towards the second floor of 4 Privet Drive. Just as it appeared to dissolve into the wall, he was hit with an unseeable force that knocked his world black.

When he came to again, it was to the face of a very pudgy, wrinkled face and a scraggly mustache plastered above a very downturned mouth. His pupils constricted, irises glowing with an unrivaled flame.

He flinched and realized he was surrounded by scattered toys, toppled over soldiers and cars standing on their sides, wheels turned here and there. Hand paintings of a toddler littered the ground. Faded stains scattered about the white carpeting and a cabinet and crib duo stood adjacent to where he was half supported by his upper body. He felt the signs of bruising and winced. 

All of a sudden, the grey walls seemed to press in all around him as the realization of where he was shook him to the core, though the how and why still unresolved. 

His uncle tugged at his left hand, and the world spun haphazardly. 

“You’re more inept than I expected,” Uncle Vernon spat, ignoring the young boy's wails of denial. “Did I not say: ‘You’re not allowed upstairs!’?”

He shoved the boy into the cupboard, and the boy bounced roughly on the little bed. Tears sprung around the corners of his eyes, but he restrained them. His hand brushing against a polished surface, and he realized one of his toy soldiers had fallen off the shelf.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon,” the boy managed to croak. “Yes you did, Uncle Vernon, sir.”

His uncle glared at him, muttering, “Imbecile,” as he closed the cupboard door. 

Footsteps no more, and the Boy-Who-Lived-Under-the-Stairs wept soundlessly.

The pages in his story were at a standstill, yet everything and everyone were already on the next chapter. From a distance, he knew Dudley was becoming fowler and fowler, the dust coating his waking hours should have indicated that. Meanwhile, Vernon and Petunia were expanding their business with the side of “Boy!”. Yet, he spent his days in achromatic, meandering in and out of the home like a ghost in unrest.

'Yes, sir’s and “Yes, ma’am’s echoed in monotone throughout the first floor. While the Dursleys flourished and prospered, the young boy remained stagnant. Greys, iron, charcoal, pebble, and graphite loaded his vision; cloudy whites mingled in between. Even his olfactories came up short, and everything was simply bland. 

He did run across a picture book about human anatomy during school, and that seemed to be the only value he found - continued to find, really. If he stayed in the library where the older kids were, he found that no one would disturb him. Furthermore, the first shelf he came across was just filled with same material, and oh, did he inhale them.

His fascination did not go unnoticed. 

Dudley and his cronies’ laughter rebounded against the corridor the next time he entered the library, however, a thick textbook lied in wait on his favorite spot where the sun didn’t gleam too bright nor the shadows made it too dim.

 _Gray’s Anatomy_ , it read.

Flipping to a random page, a picture of a skeletal hand stood out almost grotesquely against the brown page. Bits of muscle were attached to parts of bone, and it took him some getting used to: dissociating horror from assessment.

“Cahr-pahhhl,” he whispered, feeling his pronunciation was already off, but moving on to the next word. “May-tah-cahr-pahl.”

Each day he left the book behind, and each day it remained. And, each day, though with extreme difficulty, he would try to digest the information. The first few months were an outright disaster. He found he failed at retention, much less understanding. There were words that stuck, and some that simply flew over his head. Eventually, he succumbed to just studying the diagrams and words, and after a year and a half, his eight year old self felt the success. 

The time he allowed for extracurriculars made him seem like the dunce in class, but one observing adult knew differently. And, so the same adult gifted him something new every time there was improvement. And, slowly, the child was able to read twenty pages. 

Understanding, however, was another matter.

Laviet approached the boy. He made small talk, and he joked, but nothing ever seemed to resonate with young one. Yet, Laviet continued his crusade for communication, to help the boy learn the importance of comprehension and speech, as it seemed the boy lacked in both aspects.

Of course, there were improvements, albeit slow. The thin boy didn’t have any friends, and it didn’t seem he desired any either. Laviet believed he should have been concerned, thinking this as he peered above his book to study the boy.

The boy was on his tippy-toes, scribbling around the sketch drawn in white chalk. He turned every now and then, flipping through handwritten note cards and the writing in _Gray_ ’s. Those emerald eyes followed every word they captured, index finger gliding behind them. Laviet had to suppress a laugh when the boy took the chalk and absentmindedly rubbed at his head, leaving a white powder on the boy’s hair and sweater.

Averting his gaze, Laviet peered down sadly to unseeing words.

He should have been more concerned, but his mind was half tied to the family screaming at him all the way from France. Seeing a gem and polishing one was the most he could do. 

And, said gem remained clueless.

Or, so he thought.

A slip of paper was discovered under his office door as he bent down, supported by a burgundy luggage against his left hip. It didn’t take long for an amused smile to spread across his lips.

 _tibi gratias_ was written, when a simple _gratias_ would have sufficed.

 

❅❅❅

 

_Sir Laviet,_

_When things explode and turn into something else, was a magician present?_

_n o t l i k e l y , b u t k e e p a n o p e n e y e._

_-T h o m a s_

 

“Hey, freak!” The boy turned at Dudley’s voice.

Dudley’s slimey hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed, pulling and pushing him towards the stairs.

Another bruise for his 9th year.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

There was only chortling. Chortling that followed the other boy as he disappeared into the living room, and all one could hear behind the thin walls were the excited squeals from the youngest Dursley. Petunia could be heard clapping obnoxiously, while Vernon waled his appreciation.

“Boy,” Vernon began. He had followed Dudley a few seconds later, and those few seconds were all it took for the temperature to drop.

The boy fixed his gazed to the floor, while Vernon spat order after order with Petunia chiming in when necessary. ‘Don’t forget to turn off the stove when you’re done preparing dinner’ or “Recheck the locks. We don’t need any more nuisances in this home’.

It was the last one that kind of tickled his fancy, you could say. It was a bit of a large word to swallow, he heard Laviet say it, but in a different context.

It was that same night the young boy decided to triple his efforts. Followed by another. And, another, which eventually turned to another year. The text on latissimus dorsi, the mitral valve, and sinusoids were reread front to back and back again. The intricacies of the heart became his foundation; the muscles were his strength; the skeleton his framework; the fluids and the nerves becoming his reason.

It was a repetitive ordeal, laced with succinct but numerous correspondences with Thomas Laivet.

 

_Sir,  
Why can’t the blood flow upwards when hanging upside down?_

_Sir,  
Veins are intriguing._

_Sir,  
Why don’t we have vestigial parts for wings?_

_Sir,  
Why isn’t the heart as encased as that for the brain?_

_Sir,  
Why must we only move with the parts only provided to us?_

_Sir,  
Why do we feel? Why do we have to remember?_

_Sir,  
Is existence meaningful?_

 

They were curious questions, yes. Some reflecting the child who asked them; some reflecting those that weren’t the inner workings of a child. But, the child didn’t strike them as important.

And so, his narrative remained floating on still waters. 

Greys. Blacks. Nights. Another question. Repeat. Greys. Blacks. Nights. Another question. Repeat. Greys. Blacks. Nights. Questions. Repeat. Greys. Blacks. Nights. Questions. Repea-. Greys. Blacks. Nights. Questions. Rep-

Greys. 

Blacks.

Nights.

Question.

...A letter?

He went to grab it, but Vernon was faster. 

So, the letters retaliated. They were delivered faster, and the young boy could only laugh at the absurdity. As it was, Privet Drive was covered in snow for another season.

“What are you laughing at?!”

The boy jumped and almost fell on his face, glasses swinging precariously at the edge of his nose. 

“Nothing, sir,” he replied automatically.

Vernon Dursley’s eyes narrowed in quiet judgement, continuing to ignore their avian company. It seemed as if a lifetime spanned between them; Petunia and Dudley waiting nervously in the background and fidgeting now and then.

Vernon's gaze was torn towards the fireplace. The only warning was the debris before letters shot out like the bullets of machine guns whispered in class.

In the midst of the onslaught, the young boy shot out an arm, fingers curling around a crisp white letter. He felt hands pulling at his limbs, but it was muted. His sole attention was trying to get to his cupboard and locking it. 

The plan was met with resistance, as he slipped and fell a couple of times before coming nose-to-nose with the cupboard door. 

Palms slammed against the wood, creaking and shaking in its frame. There were shrieks ricocheting and parchments rustling all around, but it didn’t matter.

“ _——Cupboard Under The Stairs_ ,” he read. “… _pleased to inform you…Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ …"

As he reread the document over and over again, he could almost feel his pupils dilate. The pages in his narrative felt like it was finally taking a leap forward. He thought he could taste the sweet tang of freedom. He thought he did.

He didn’t.

Vernon, struck with shock, had everyone packing and on the road to a shack atop a narrow cliff. Tensions were high as soon as everyone settled in. Sleeping arrangements were made, and Dudley and Harry had to sleep in the living room whilst Petunia and Vernon were meant for the second floor.

The shack groaned every time the unrelenting gales hit the wood and made it creak that the boy feared the whole shack would topple all over their heads, but the other three remained unfazed. The snores rose to a symphony even when lightning struck nearby. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed. At this point, everything seemed more monochrome than achromatic. 

When was the last time he thought of days?

He couldn’t remember. 

This shack was making him senile. The correspondences with Sir Laviet were on temporary reprieve.

There was a loud BANG!, and for a moment, he thought the lightning had finally decided to take better aim. The noise seemed to pulled everyone from their slumber, as Dudley was now on his feet and the remaining Dursleys were huddled on the first floor.

The boy was awake, since the lightning strikes began, so his mind was preparing for the worst. He expected this when another BANG! resounded a foot away. Instead, he was greeted with a figure that engulfed the entire door.

At first, he thought it was Death himself, come take him away. He knew no amount of anatomy would assist him in this situation, but acquainting himself to the half-giant who presented his first birthday cake made him realize that no amount of anatomy could have helped him in either circumstance.

The half-giant, Rubeus Hagrid, was…cute. The boy drew a mental comparison between him and Laviet, almost regretting it when the giant had nothing in common with the strawberry blonde except for, possibly, caring. Though, it seemed the whole wizarding world seemed to care. He didn’t even have a foot in Diagon Alley, and the magical community was breathing down his neck. Turban and all.

“Boy-Who-Lived!”

“’s that the Boy-Who-Lived?!”

“It’s the Boy-!”

“Pleasure to meet you, boy!”

If he tried hard enough, Vernon’s face wouldn’t appear in the forefront of his mind.

“Y'er a'rite?”

“Never better,” said The-Boy-Who-Lived née Boy-Who-Lived-Under-The-Stairs.

For the most part, the Wizarding World wasn’t so bad. Gringotts tickled his fancy, but not enough to hold it, though Hagrid’s cagey attitude got him wary. He met a Malfoy who resembled Thomas, while getting tangled in a line of robes. Hagrid gifted him with a beautiful, snowy owl that he knew he would have an instant connection with, and there was this little intersection where his gut just screamed in protest while his brain whispered to...peek.

He should have paid attention to the signs more, but he was too immersed in the path ahead. And, even if he did, nothing looked different, apart from the crowd who seemed more distant here than their vibrant cousin next door. Nonetheless, they all recognized him the same, though a little more tactile.

Before he could venture further, Hedwig, his owl, chomped down at his shoulder and pulled at his sleeve. Pulling and pulling, until he was standing in direct juxtaposition to Knockturn Alley and-

Hedwig kept pulling. 

Because of his height, he couldn’t avoid tangling into more robes. Nor could he avoid stepping on their toes which were followed by a staccato of low- and high-pitched shrieks. However, Hedwig was relentless. Pulling, until the boy was gaining speed towards a shop, forced to open the door with his own hands to avoid running straight into it.

He was a wizard, but he had no spells in his current arsenal, save for those accidentals.

The man managing the shop peered at him, and he squirmed, thinking his new owl had dragged him from one danger to another. However, the boy was quick to realize his mistake when the elderly man smiled. 

Introductions exchanged between the boy and Mr. Ollivander, who like the rest of the community, recognized him in a heartbeat. It was times like these that he wished for his precious corner in St. Grogory’s, praying Hogwarts would provide him the same liberties.

The boy was aware a couple of displays, shelves, and furnitures were smashed into pieces in the pursuit of an appropriate wand. He was also aware that his magic was protesting heavily against the components of some wands, specifically the more powerful cores. He almost had some interest when he came across a Pheonix Feather core and Mr. Ollivander hesitated. The boy thought this would be his wand, and there was a wonderful hue to it if one could see colors of magic, but then, it seemed even holding the wand was some sort of trigger for malicious intent, as all the windows of Ollivander’s shop burst open.

Apparently, Mr. Ollivander didn’t have to cast a spell. Harry’s magic and the Pheonix Feather interacted in such a way that the aftereffects were destructive as they were protective. The shards transformed into liquid, prior to even coming in contact with any surface. Though, Ollivander still had to clean up the mess.

The boy blanked in between the window incident and the maroon wand he now held. The tip spat an angry dissonance of flames, until he let go.

In the back of his mind, he noticed a group of red heads enter the shop and quickly walk out. Another came in with hair that was worse than his, but even she left Ollivander’s Wand Shop after a couple of flicks. 

It must have been late afternoon, judging by the light of the day and the shadows slowly creeping in. By the time Mr. Ollivander swept the entirety of the shop, searching for 'The One', other customers had already come and gone. Ollivander even had to clone himself when the boy’s dilemma didn’t seem to diminish.

It was with a despondent gait that Ollivander returned empty handed. A look the boy wasn’t sure how to respond to.

“I could try to craft you a wand unique to your magical abilities, but I would need to experiment tremendously. Something I haven’t done for centuries. The quickest I can manage is late December, long past the deadline for classes.”

“What d' ya pe’rpose we do, ‘en?!” the usually gentle giant barked.

A frown settled on the bottom half of Mr. Ollivander’s face, staring at the boy while trying to stomp down his concern. 

“Mr. Potter,” he began. “You could try — that is — though I don’t know how well your magic would react to it if you did…”

“W’a is it, Oll’vand’r?” Hagrid pressed, teeth almost baring. An unusual sight compared to what the boy supposed was his normal demeanor.

Mr. Ollivander’s face pinched. The boy could feel the air shift, a static feel to it that burned at the touch, even before Mr. Ollivander opened his mouth to speak. “ _Wands._ ”

The boy felt Hagrid tense up beside him, but the boy couldn’t discern what was so wrong with the single word, aside from his dire need of one.

“You could try negotiating with _Gregorovitch_."

The pages in dear Harry Potter’s story trembled.


	2. pink   i c e

When he was nine and three-quarters, he was on the second floor watching the school yard when the napkins on the emerald green grass exploded and sprinkled the ground with confetti. Snakes slithered out of the green squares, and children that were once running around in glee were screaming in abject horror. The schoolyard teachers had a hard time herding up the little devils who were running around in a frenzy, trying to take cover in bushes which much to the teacher’s displeasure, harmed the kids more than helped them.

He remembered writing to Laviet instantaneously.

When he was ten and a half, he recalled standing in the middle of the park, hair dancing in tune to the south wind, and the merry go round turning round and round like a disc on a phonograph. A red balloon floated to and fro against the slate sky, leaves caressing it and flapping away. The balloon glided between trees, not showing any signs of relenting as a girl with little pigtails chased after it, crying for it to come back down.

He remembered wishing for the balloon to float into the little girl’s hands. And, to his surprise, the balloon began descending into the girl’s anticipatory hands. He waited for the delighted squeal, but instead, was met with the sounds of despair. 

When he was eleven, he remembered freeing the constrictor from its glassy confines, strumming an unknown cord within him.

He was found by the Dursleys, half-hyperventilating. 

Harry had the same ominous feeling when he and Hagrid stood before _Wands_. They were still in Diagon Alley — people still coming up to Harry awestruck and giggling —, but close enough to Knockturn so that Carkitt Market served as an intermediary for the two shopping districts.

Harry had to admit: Carkitt was brimming with more energy than the entire Diagon itself. Witches pranced about in either Victorian-style robes or Eastern-wear, luggages floating around them in droves, small and big. Whereas, wizards in colorful garbs walked unfalteringly through crowds, only stopping in front of a window that caught their attention. Unrestrained familiars weaved between robes, and Harry could have sworn he spotted a baby dragon trailing behind a man in Muggle attire. Apparently, people with no magic were dubbed as Muggles. There were other terms that Harry couldn’t remember, but what he could definitely ascertain was that sycophantic wizards were giggling behind their fancy curtains, establishing a very prejudiced hierarchical system on the basis of purity.

And, he thought the Wizarding Community had no predilection towards segregation. It was a Wizarding World, after all!

Along the way, he stepped over paper clippings of a Magical newspaper. He strained his eyes to read, 'Years Since Grindelwald’ in bold lettering, but nothing like the blockier script he saw in the Leaky Cauldron. It was a little thinner and had a modern feel to it. Also, catching the word ‘No-Maj’ which confused him, as he thought the term was Muggle.

Even flitting paper cranes were a thing, appearing like the hummingbirds he saw Petunia talking to. Harry had the chance of bumping into one and got a face full of screaming hysterics, paper distorting this way and that to form the words for another receiver. 

“An ‘owler that one,” Hagrid had said. 

Apparently, not all cranes were howlers. Developed by Middle Easterns and reinvented by their Far Eastern Counterparts, they were a quick but more expendable method than delivering messages by owl. When the Middle Easterns first designed it, they had the sole intention of delivering messages for medicine. Villagers wanted a way to contact their local alchemist without having to step out of their homes or send their familiars in the blazing heat. It had no aerial abilities and so the cranes used to stir up a mess in certain environments. It wasn’t until the Japanese redesigned the technique that the paper cranes were able to take flight. Despite how innovative the Japanese were, the cranes could only last ten minutes before dissolving into air, as the core design was extremely temperamental. The paper cranes were second to sending some Patronus charm Harry would learn in his later years.

Hagrid shuffled his feet, dragging Harry's attention back to the present. The half-giant looked so anxious standing there than Harry supposed he should have felt. Harry had no prior knowledge of the Wizarding World so any qualms he could have would stem from his lack of knowledge, but Hagrid did have knowledge. And, that’s what made Harry uncertain whether to take this with wariness or discouragement. Harry was tired of his life failing him. He never complained about his circumstances, but there came a point when a person couldn’t stomach it anymore. No matter how paralyzed they became. This world within a world gave him hope. There was no way he would submit himself to the same mundane routine for the rest of his life. This was the freedom he’d been asking for, and he’d take it greedily.

“What are we waiting for, Hagrid?”

The half-giant snapped out of his daze and ground his teeth together, summoning the courage to go and open the door, but it seemed the door had other intentions. It creaked opened, and unlike Ollivander’s well-lit shop, this one was dimmer. He had to squint his eyes around to see what was inside. Thankfully, when the door shut, big balls of light manifested atop the countless displays that decorated the front half of the room. In the back, the other wands were boxed away, layout similar to Ollivander's, except the front half of the shop was bigger and the display cases more noticeable. Harry took a glimpse into one of such cases and found that the wand inside was more of a thorny branch than a wand. The others next to it looked equally disturbing, one puffing out some weird smoke and another appearing as if it were composed of the bones of a dead chicken.

Harry reared back slowly, now wishing for the shop owner to make his appearance, especially when he got a good look at one of the glowing orbs. Upon further inspection, Harry realized the balls of light had ghostly faces materializing in and out of them. If he listened close enough, he could almost hear them moaning in perpetuity.

“Hagrid?” Harry asked, feeling a chill run down his spine. The faces were disconcerting. The whole place was disconcerting. If he had known he would be this unsettled, he would have struck the deal with Ollivander. Blast the consequences.

He felt a breath against his neck and almost bolted for the door if it weren’t the owner himself who stopped him on his tracks. “Mykew Gregorovitch, at your service.”

Harry turned. 

The man appearing behind the counter looked less hospitable than Ollivander. There was an insane glint that glimmered in the depth of his eyes, and his left hand twitched every now and then, making Harry ponder over the cause. Harry got a sense it had nothing to do with genetics and more to do with magic which led him in a cascade of mentally questioning whether magic was worth the price, if such consequences were the exchange for liberation.

“Harry Potter, correct?” Gregorovitch was already heading towards one of his shelves, starting the same routine back at Ollivander’s. Harry found that if he concentrated on that, the whole ordeal felt less intimidating. “Why don’t we start with Zebrawood and Harpy Feathers?”

Harry only hovered over it, and the wand nearly smacked him in the face. It hadn’t even left Gregorovitch’s grip.

“‘rego’ovitch!” Hagrid growled.

The man himself held up a finger, humming as he returned with another box. A couple more floating behind him. 

“Eucalyptus and Basilisk Fangs.”

This time, Harry was able to grab hold of the wand, but he got a sense that something was off. That suspicion was confirmed when he did the slightest hand movement and electric currents zapped out of the tip which Gregorovitch extinguished immediately. Harry had to admit, the man had a quicker reaction time than Ollivander. While Ollivander was more invested in observing the effects, Gregorovitch seemed to have already foreseen the results and was more intent in creating a match. However, Harry’s magic seemed to be reacting more violently around here in lieu of the simple smashing or crashing.

One box that floated behind Gregorovitch whizzed back to its shelf, and another took its place. He reached behind him and grabbed the one to his right. A red-purple wand, much closer to an Ollivander design came to Harry’s eye level. The wandmaker didn’t mention what the components were, as if sensing this would take a while. One flick said it all and a beam of light illuminated every nook and cranny of _Wands_. It took a while longer for Gregorovitch to react, but he put it out all the same.

He held out an obsidian-colored wood without pause. Just as the others, it didn’t take Harry long to realize this wasn’t his, particularly when green gas threatened to suffocate them all. The next had the same effect, but golden fireworks skittered across the floor and tapered off when it touched the displays or Gregorovitch’s shelves. Harry could already sense the wand maker’s growing annoyance.

In the midst of everything, Harry felt exhaustion creeping up on him. After spending the majority of the day trying out wands, he should have been at the brink of collapse. With no magical training, he had no control over the magic he released every time he held them. It took common sense to be aware that the more reactive cores took up a greater part of his energy. Him bent over his knees and breathing unevenly already showed how close he was to his breaking point.

“A'rite there?” Hagrid asked, squeezing his shoulder. 

Harry sucked in a breath, nodding his head. He stood up, stomaching the nausea. All he wanted was a wand. How hard was it to get a piece of wood? People didn’t usually take this long did they? He just wanted some comfort in knowing he wasn’t the only one suffering again. The only outcast.

It felt like being back at Ollivander’s. Not a single wand seemed to suit Harry’s magic, and the longer Harry was there, the weaker he felt. Even Gregorovitch voiced his concerns, saying that a couple dozen more would drain Harry completely. And, Harry was getting anxious. The more the wands protested, the more the hope in his heart sunk and the voice in his head kept screaming ‘Freak! You’re a freak, Harry!’.

“‘e should stop.”

Gregorovitch agreed, sending boxes back to their places and conjuring up a glass of water for Harry. 

“W’at’s goin’ on? Why a’nt he getting’ a wand? There been no wizerd b‘fore ‘arry that had a wand pr’blem like this.’Vander had the same problem a’well.”

Gregorovitch tapped a finger on one of the glass displays, still refusing to answer the half-giant. It seemed the wandmaker didn’t even want to acknowledge Hagrid’s existence, and Harry wanted to comment on it, but something told him that it wouldn’t bode well for either Hagrid or for him. But, the discrimination was there. It was so blatantly obvious that Harry had a hard time trying to dismiss it. “Mr. Potter...tell me about yourself.”

Harry set the empty glass down and wiped his lips. Another shiver ran down his spine as Gregorovitch’s crazed glint disappeared only to be pinned down by a penetrating gaze. The wandmaker was waiting for him to speak.

“What should I say?”

The wandmaker shrugged and walked towards the backroom again. The shelves carried his voice as he sung, “Anything.”

Harry squirmed, and Hagrid gave him another comforting squeeze. He tried worming around the back of his mind for something to say, but there really was nothing to say. Not when Harry spent the bulk of his childhood ticking down the days, until he would be free of the Dursleys. Not when Dudley had ostracized him to the point that making friends was just an illusion. He had nothing, and maybe, that was something altogether.

“I grew up in a Muggle community with no friends. No family,” Harry began, and he felt Hagrid freeze up beside him. “There were times where I questioned the meaning of my existence. Why I deserved the things I went through. I used to take things to heart and keep them there, carving them into my memories unhealthily. Like I was taking the same knife and retracing the lines I made the first time and back again."

Hagrid winced at that.

"I would always hear their voices saying I was a freak. That I was worthless. That I didn’t belong, or that I was unnatural. I didn’t have anyone to share that burden with, and it ate at me. I wished for the days that I could stick my head out and finally breathe, but they never came. The only freedom I ever had was when I dreamed, but those only lasted for so long, and I never remembered them. If they were good. If they were bad. If they were worth thinking about. If it was even freedom at all. Regardless, they felt like a break from my meaningless existence.”

The rustling from the back of the room stopped briefly and started up again.

“Eventually, I found that if I stopped carving patterns in myself, the pain would stop. There would be no pain if I stopped internalizing them. There would be no pain if I stopped feeling altogether, and it worked, but I found that they were ineffective when it came to emotions I subconsciously desired. I found I still had them when someone saw me for who I was. I didn’t know how much I needed it, until they were there every day. And, slowly, the emotions I kept bottled up inside eased their way out. But, the harm was done, and standing here now, I don’t think I would have ever come out the same living with my aunt and uncle. At my age, I was supposed to socialize, but instead, I spent my time wondering what was wrong with me.”

The rustling stopped. Harry felt Hagrid trying to vie for his attention, but there was that gut feeling again. Something felt different. He felt it when Gregorovitch emerged from the shadows and a silvery-gray box peeked under his robes. Calling to him. 

He unboxed the wand and held it out when he was within Harry's reach, and Harry took his time scrutinizing it.

It was colored a rich plum, polished like wet stone and glinting in even near darkness. The handle had vines carved around it, intended for a better grip like the cleats beneath sports shoes. Something about it seemed to sing to him, just as the Pheonix core had, but stronger. Heavier. It was like a siren trying to lure in all those sailors. Captivating. Enticing. Intoxicating.

His fingers curled around it protectively the moment it left Gregorovitch’s grasp. At first, nothing happened, and he looked at the wandmaker expectedly, but then, he felt the familiar tingle he got with the Pheonix feather. A warmth shooting into his hands and spreading all the ways to his toes. Unlike the wand in Ollivander’s, this one hummed to him, almost as if it understood him for who he was, not what he was.

Harry wanted it. There was no denying. He wanted it as much as he wanted to breathe.

“Rosewood and a Soul Strand for a core,” Gregorovitch eyed it in wonder, fingers brushing over the middle, a little above Harry’s grasp. Harry didn’t even want to know where he got the piece of soul from or what it meant for him. He finally had something that others had! He found his wand. “One of my later experiments, when I got my hands on the-“

“‘lder Wan’,” Hagrid said.

“I wasn’t talking to you, you brute!” Gregorovitch snapped that it was enough to pull Harry out of his high.

“Don’t matt’r!” Hagrid retorted as he tugged at Harry’s shoulder, pulling him back and throwing his galleons on one of the workbenches. “‘eep the change."

Gregorovitch’s eyes locked with Harry’s. They followed him as Hagrid tugged him out of the wand shop. Harry's curiosity had peaked, and he wanted to inquire more about his new wand and these experiments, but something told him it wasn’t the right time. Just before the door closed, he watched as Gregorovitch’s lips stretch out into a manic grin.

 

❅❅❅

 

The Dursleys were unbothered that he was going to this odd Wizarding school. He did catch Petunia staring at him with pure, unadulterated hate, but he didn’t have a chance to fully inspect the meaning behind the look, as Hagrid was tugging him along like he always did. He didn’t even have a chance to figure out what he was supposed to do before the half-giant disappeared and left him with nothing but a ‘Platform Nine and Three-Quarters’.

Yes, Hagrid. Of course, Hagrid. Of course, he’d find this platform. Of course, he’d find it when he was yay high and barely brushing over people’s elbows. 

This was going to be so good.

He fumbled around the station, dodging feet and embarrassing himself when the man he’d asked peered down at him crazily, shooing him away for simply being a kid. He tried again with a red-haired lady who was spouting magical verbiage and struck jackpot when she told him it was between Platforms 9 and 10. Addled by even his own stupidity, he passed through the brick wall without difficulty and mentally slapped himself. He’d seen the numbers before, but he'd always read them as ‘nine and three over four’. As such, he had never been as shellshocked as he was, standing there with his luggage and Hedwig hooting at him as if saying, ‘Come on, you idiot! We get it!’, continuing to scold himself for his idiocy. The huge red, black train hooted cheerily and blasted plumes of thick smoke, as if agreeing with Hedwig and all Harry did was stick his tongue out at the bird.

It wasn’t that hard to get aboard, but finding an empty compartment was a difficult task altogether. While he wanted friends, he still felt trepidation when it came to socializing with people his age. He had a better time acclimating to those who were older, and he had a feeling if he tried now, he’d end up a stuttering, fumbling mess, speeding down the corridor and pulling the strands of his hair. 

It took him a couple tries before he found one that was vacant and unlocked. He lifted his stuff over his head and arranged them neatly, plopping down on a seat when he was done and fixating at the remaining families on the platform. Mothers kissed their children on their foreheads, and fathers crouched down, murmuring to their sons. Some gave firm pats on their children's backs as they encouraged them along, while older students simply hugged their relatives, jogging up to the train. The jogging grew more urgent when the train gave one last hoot, until finally, it lurched forward, chugging away until the scene shifted from stone and brick to woods and clear pastures. It almost felt like one of the books he read by C.S. Lewis. Those Pevensie children and that wardrobe. It felt like he was already aboard an exciting adventure; an adventure that would change his life forever.

The view would never cease to enrapture him. There was just so much space. More space than he had ever seen in his entire life that he just wanted to take snapshots and embed the images into his memories, so that he would forever look at them. Hold them. Cherish them. All the fine little details of the shrubs, of the foliage. Of the different oaks and pines. The butterflies and the beautiful blossoms. The lakes, the ponds, and the water lilies that dotted them, dragonflies bouncing above and frogs pouncing in a predatory haze. Dandelions floated against the wind, and for a second, Harry struggled with the latch on the window, just to stick his hand out to feel the blossoms caress his skin.

That was how Ron found The Boy Who Lived, upper torso leaning out the window and giggling.

The red-head ran straight to the raven-haired boy and hauled him back into the train. Harry pulled back with little fight and stared into a familiar face. The boy was staring at him incredulously, shifting his gaze from Harry's eyes to his forehead and back to his eyes again.

“Y-y-y-,” the boy stuttered, pointing at his forehead. For the briefest of seconds, Harry was paralyzed with fear, thinking the boy would start running away. “You’re _him_! You’re The Boy Who Lived!”

The boy averted his gaze to the open window and back to Harry again.

“Anything from the trolley, dears?”

The red-head shut his mouth with a snap, the boy’s entire visage changing. His face became downcast and his shoulders drooped so fast that Harry almost believed that this was how the boy usually acted.

“Sorry, already have something,” he said, patting his back pocket. “Thanks though!”

Harry, finding this boy curious, examined the boy a little more and absentmindedly uttered that he’d take the whole thing for two. The effects were almost instantaneous. The red-head’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He was about ready to pounce the cart himself before he stopped and looked back, barely remembering that Harry asked for it, not him. Harry just shrugged and drew his attention back to the window, putting in all of his weight to close the thing and pull the latch down.

He heard the red head moan and cry excitedly, the thumping of sweets were the only sounds in the compartment. Harry went to help as soon as he could, and a couple minutes later, they were seated, sweets surrounding them. Both uncertain where to start.

“Do you prefer the sugary stuff, or things that really get your mouth going?” Ron inquired, hands brushing over the assortment of wrappers and boxes. “I’m Ron Weasley, by the way. I’m sorry I barged in here like that. All the other compartments were full and thought this was empty, until I saw you hanging out over there. The wind was too loud. You gave me the fright! I thought you were going to kill yourself!”

Harry laughed, assessing the box of what read ‘Chocolate Frogs’ and another that read ‘Fireballs’. He paused when he took Ron’s outstretched hand and shook.

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted embarrassingly. “I don’t have a particular favorite when it comes to food, so I just bought the whole cart thinking it would be fun to try them all. I’ve never tried any of this.”

Harry dug a hand into his mound and pulled out a box that said ‘Licorice Wands’. He threw it hastily back into the pile and missed Ron’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Plus, if I was going to kill myself, I don’t weigh a lot. I would have been dead before you knew it.”

Ron groaned, rubbing a hand across his face and shaking his head. “Bloody hell, who knew _the_ Harry Potter was suicidal?”

Harry shrugged, favoring the Chocolate Frogs more than the Fireballs.

“And, living with Muggles your whole life,” Ron went on. “I got you."

Harry chuckled. “Do they have my name on a memorial or something? Everyone just seems to know more about me than I know myself!"

“It’s…You-Know-Who. Everyone who knows anybody knows surviving a killing curse so young, it's basically the most amazing thing that could ever happen. My mum and dad always rave about you. My brothers have come to the point where they know you like the back of their hand. You’re amazing Harry!”

That was the closest thing to idol worship that Harry’s ever heard in person. In spite of that, Harry blushed, busying himself with opening the Chocolate Frogs, only for the sweet itself to hop out of his reach. The container fell in his haste to grab it, so that when he sat back down and looked down at his feet, he was staring face-to-face with an old man who had a long beard. His eyes twinkled brightly, even in hologram form, but vanished as quickly as Harry saw him. Harry suppressed a shriek.

“That's Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. He’s the most powerful wizard alive. Order of Merlin First Class, stuff like that,” Ron said munching through what looked to be a bag of cotton candy. “I want to be in Gryffindor, just because he came from that house. Merlin forbid, I get sorted into Slytherin. Everyone who comes from Slytherin are venomous through and through.”

Prejudiced magical world, indeed.

“That’s pretty judgmental, don’t you think?” Harry asked, treading over his words with delicacy and caution. He took his own replica of what Ron was devouring. "And, Gryffindor and Slytherin? What are those?" 

The red head scrunched his brows together, taking a bite out of a Licorice Wand as well. “They’re Houses where First Years get sorted into. Uh, how do you explain it? Like teams in…football? Is that what Muggles call it? I can’t remember. But, yeah. Slytherin is one of the four houses. There’s never been a good wizard that came into that House. The lot have a heart as cold as stone.”

Harry set aside his cotton candy. It didn’t have a label, just colorful print that moved like the newspapers he saw in the Leaky Cauldron. Ron’s was colored a translucent, light pink; his a shimmery gold. On the surface, it appeared to be as soft as cotton, but when you bit into it, the texture was tough as thread. No wonder Ron was having a hard time going through it. It did taste awfully good though. It wasn’t too sweet, and it had just the right amount of flavor to leave you wanting. 

“But,” Harry began, a scowl on his face. “You’ve never been to Hogwarts before. It just seems like- look. A friend was bitten by a dog." 

The red-head cast him a puzzled look, half critical. An appearance that looked every bit as odd as it sounded, accentuated by the bits of pink sticking out of his lip. Harry wasn't sure how he hadn't found himself laughing at all.

"He went to the doctor," Harry bravely proceeded, ignoring how much the boy looked like a toddler. "Because the dog bit him so hard that he’s bleeding over the place. That one incident gave your friend such a scare that he’s frightened of all canines now. He then runs to you whining how all dogs are scary when, in fact, they’re not. But, you agree with him anyways when you’ve never seen a dog act so scary or been terrorized by one. Though your inner voice disagrees with your friend, you still go around saying dogs are evil, just from one, single perception of a dog. The Muggles call it herd mentality. But, inner voice or not, you’re agreeing with an idea simply because people said so.”

Ron considered Harry’s explanation. For a second, he thought he got through to him, but then the red-head quickly added, “You-Know-Who was a Slytherin.”

Harry mentally sighed and shrugged. “So? I might get sorted into Slytherin.”

Ron’s eyes bulged out to a point that Harry was afraid they would pop out of its sockets.

“I’m just saying,” Harry said, trying to explain himself. “I mean, how do we get sorted anyways?”

“A Sorting Hat,” Ron managed, still shooting him a perplexed look.

Harry didn’t know what that entailed, but he went with it. “Do you know how this Sorting Hat sorts you?”

“No, but it knows what’s it doing. All the students are sorted to a house that suits their personality precisely."

Harry could almost hear himself scream. “But, here we go again. You weren’t there to say that the hat sorts you in a House that precisely matches your personality. If that were the case, all the students on this train would be partitioned into compartments exclusively for Slytherins, exclusively for Gryffindors, exclusively for- for-“

“Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws,” Ron offered.

“Yes,” Harry said, thanking him with the nod of his head. “For Hufflepuffs, and for Ravenclaws where all those students in those compartments would act exactly the same. The exact clone of one another. Because tell me, what is one word or two you would use to show me how each Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw should appear in my head?”

The red head bit his lip, trying to think of the words to answer Harry. “Well, Gryffindor is no doubt brave. They have a lion as their figurehead. Slytherin. Slytherin is cunning and a serpent. Hmm…Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff is loyalty and a badger. And, Ravenclaw is intellect and a raven!"

Harry nodded his head, a rebuttal already on its way. He was finally getting a bigger picture of Hogwarts, and his previous misgivings in _Wands_ immediately resurfaced. “So, you’re telling me all the students in Gryffindor are brave when I saw some students with a lion’s insignia on their lapel, cowering at the sight of the train. You’re telling me that Slytherins are all cunning when I saw some older years horsing around in their compartment and cackling away. That all Hufflepuffs are loyal which I have yet to see evidence of. The same which I can say for Ravenclaw.

"And, back to my point about Slytherins. Just because this Slytherin House is known for being cunning, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re evil. They just know how to snake their way better than others, no pun intended. So, the Sorting Hat may very well sort me because a part of myself is cunning, not because I’m predominantly evil or cold-hearted. It may even sort you because it sees a part of yourself that your designated House can develop.

"And, who knows, the Sorting Hat’s just a lucky guesser, and by chance, everyone with the personality trait got stuck together. So,” Harry prattled on. “You can’t just talk ill of Slytherins without dragging your own House preference as well. I mean, does the whole magical community operate like this? Unlimited bias?”

Ron could only slouch in shame, contemplating Harry’s words with a seriousness he appreciated.

“When you put it that way,” he said, flabbergasted. "Then, I don’t know what to think.”

Harry knew he was going to go off in a tangent, but he dove for it anyways. “And, then, there’s this whole thing about blood purity. Half-bloods and purebloods, was it? I can’t seem to remember, but why does the Wizarding World need that system when you have the beauty of magic that Muggles can’t afford. There’s already an economic distinction going on in this community, but add to that with this purity nonsense? You must be aware.”

He realized his mistake as soon as the words rolled out of his tongue and Ron paled. It was as if he barely remembered the reason he bought the whole trolley in the first place, but he was so caught up in the passion of his argument and the unfairness of prejudice that he wasn’t able to thoroughly think through his words. So much for making friends. He botched it up already just by talking his head off without taking to consideration the other’s finances. His words were eating at him if it wasn’t eating at Ron already.

“I know,” he mumbled shifting uncomfortably and running a hand over his hair. “I know what you’re talking about. The Weasleys were of 'pure blood’ at one point.”

Ron stopped gnawing on the Licorice Wands and twiddled with the hem of his frayed robes. It was that one move that made Harry feel like the world’s largest git. Flashes of the Dursleys ran through his head, and now, he truly wanted to take back all of it. 

If only magical prejudice wasn’t this bad, but there was so much discrimination going on. With money, there was the blonde-haired boy he met back in Madam Malkin’s. He didn’t say it out loud, but he saw it when he felt his eyes run down Harry’s clothes. It stopped there when he heard who Harry was. Harry didn’t like it, but he forgave the kid, only because he was a kid and Draco was the first wizard he’d met that was his age.

Then, there was Hagrid’s case. Harry was pretty sure it had less to do with blood purity and more to do with being a foot taller and tad broader. Even so, the two encounters on top of Ron’s responses presented enough information for Harry to detect the politics underlying Wizarding society. However, Harry was unsure if this was exclusive to Britain, or if other nations had the same creature and blood partialities. Economic discrimination was out of the question, since the Muggle world practiced that as well and seemed to be a revolving theme no matter the society.

"One of our cousins, I believe, but we’re no longer part of this thing Wizarding Britain calls the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” — _hmm, maybe it is just Britain_ — "It’s this list for the most prominent and influential Purebloods. I’d have to ask my brothers about why it was made in the first place, but our family took ourselves off the list, admitting to be too sympathetic and open-minded. It doesn’t help we’re po-”

“I’m sorry,” Harry interrupted him. He didn’t want to hear anymore of it. He'd heard enough.

The red head finally stopped fiddling with his robes and began rifling through the candy instead. At least, that was better than reminding Harry how much of a prat he was. Just because he got a hold of some inheritance and discovered he had magic coursing through his veins, that didn't mean he had to forget himself. Where he came from. What position he was in before he was on this train. 

“It wouldn’t be the first,” Ron murmured, picking out what looked to be shiny pink cubes. “Thanks for this though. I just wish I could repa-“

“Don’t say you have to pay me back,” Harry interjected again, a part of his heart chipping away. “I did it because I wanted to. Not out of repayment, and certainly, not out of pity. I genuinely just wanted to share with someone. Share with a friend.”

That must have been the second time Harry left Ron gaping. And, he could only find himself giggling, pushing up his glasses and stealing a cube from Ron. “I mean we are friends, right?”

Ron didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, he affirmed the fact with such enthusiasm that Harry’s heart broke. “Yes! Yes, of course, we’re friends!”

Harry beamed, and Ron beamed back. 

Warm, happy, and cozy. That was how Ron and he interacted for the remainder of the ride. The happy, little bubble they created remained intact, even when a bushy-haired girl knocked at the door. Harry had recognized her from Ollivander's as well. She was now inquiring about a toad that a boy named Neville lost. The girl was slightly annoying, yet he and Ron were still in that happy, little bubble. A bubble so infectious that it persuaded Hermione to stay and forget about her initial intentions. It was because of this little world they constructed in that cramped and silly compartment that Harry forgot the meaning of sorrow. Because Harry finally understood what it meant to be a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was on Youtube autoplay writing this chapter. All of a sudden, Noah Neiman - Hold On To Love (ft. Laci Kay) starts playing. Wasn’t sure if the song is this story, or just me really liking it. Because if it is, omg. Some characters, if not one, are going to be in for one hell of a ride. (Or, it's just me trying really hard to reflect what I envision into words.)
> 
> That, or Justin Caruso - Love Somebody (ft. Chris Lee), depending on how I’ll write the later chapters.
> 
> Also! I just realized a grave error in the last chapter. I meant to say gratias instead of tibi. Whoops. Lmfao It's starting folks. My terrible writing has already started.


	3. nouveau

Harry threw a Bertie Bott’s bean at Ron and dodged a Jelly Slug. He belatedly realized that he must have initiated the whole thing when they couldn’t chug down the rest of the candy. He thought it would be a good idea to play around with the food instead of letting it waste. And, that's how the platform ended up assaulted in Bertie Beans and Jelly Slugs.

Unsuspecting students ran straight into the volley, some slipping over forgotten oval-shaped confectioneries while some were covered in slugs. Few first years joined in the skirmish, adding their own mix; the others eyeing them with extreme scrutiny.

Expensive suitcases were without exception as the luggages were painted red, green, and essentially, every color of the rainbow. One particular first year seemed to take great pleasure in not just aiming at plain, unembellished robes, but also those who had green serpents writhing on their chests. Harry overheard the boy's name to be a Seamus Finnigan which was bravery dramatized because the Slytherins looked as if they were ready to prove exactly why they got their bad reputation.

One of the those green-tied students raised their wand arm, a purplish light charging towards the boy. For a second, Harry thought Seamus would be blasted off his feet, but then, two figures blocked the incoming spell, both bearing hair as bright as Ron’s. It didn’t take a genius to know that these were Ron’s brothers. And, at the sight of the twins, more students with green ties left their position as a bystander and joined the commotion. But, then students in gold and red supported the brothers. And, then, blues and yellows, accumulating to the point where too many were gathered in one area, throwing spells haphazardly that the first years had to call a ceasefire. There were a select few who knew a couple, and Ron with all his glory was one of those first years, his spells more transformative than offensive. He watched as he gave a brunette a tail and a dark-skinned boy ears. But, Harry was quick to realize the impreciseness of his friend's spell casting when one student had half his face turned into a rodent and the other half retaining its blonde locks and pointy features. 

Harry promptly recognized the student as Draco.

The pointy blonde scowled viciously, upper limb slashing downwards with unbridled force, and the green spell hit Ron. He slammed onto the cobblestone face up, head reverberating back with a sickening thump. He heard Hermione suck in a breath, who was silently judging the fight as soon as she hopped off the train.

Harry could barely contain the anger that was bubbling to the surface. As much as there was a part of him who wanted to try and befriend Draco, he was proving how difficult it was to empathize with his rationale. Ron made Harry feel nothing but happiness. The trip would have been different if Ron hadn’t seen him dangling off the window like he did; he was even uncertain if he'd be able to make friends as effortlessly as he did with Ron. So, seeing Draco act the way he did made Harry want to do something completely irrational.

He watched as the blonde strode up to him, foot nudging the red-head’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to be aware of Harry yet, as his eyes were glazed over with a wildness that was uncommon of Draco. The air around him thickened that it smothered anyone nearby with its weight. It was haloed by the bright amalgamation of spells a couple inches away, giving him the appearance of someone possessed.

“Red hair. Hand-me-down clothes. You must be a Weasley.” — a pin could have dropped and no one would have been the wiser — “How many spawns do your family intend to make? Twenty-seven? To apologize for your mistakes? So you can apologize to the remaining Pureblood families?!"

Two burly first years standing to the side snickered.

Harry couldn’t control how his hands balled into fists nor how his wand seemed to be burning a path on his hip, or how much he wanted to sock Malfoy hard in the face. The only thing that held him back was Hermione’s fingers curling tightly around Harry’s shoulder. “No, Harry.”

He just wanted to put Draco in his place. This was going too far, even if the little he knew of Draco told him the blonde was acting out of character. 

But, it seemed he didn’t have to worry all too much because someone did the job for him.

“Blonde hair. Pointy nose,” they hummed, surprisingly clear despite all the noise. There was familiar lilt to it, a unique lilt he’d heard many times over, but with an enunciation he'd never heard before. If only it was deeper and less drawn out, there was no mistaking it would have sounded like Laviet. The boy’s eyes shimmered the same shade of turquoise, and his hair was the same strawberry blonde. 

The shadows that cast over Draco vanished, but a fraction remained, evident when he turned to face the newcomer.

“Who. Are you?” he spat, pronouncing each word with as much vitriol he could manage. Draco scanned the tall boy up and down, the tallest boy of their year it seemed. He had his robes hung neatly over his arm, showing the eclectic sense of fashion he adorned. A dark purple sash made of gossamer wrapped around his torso, knotted up at the bottom of his right hip and beads dangling from it. Thin, silver strips lined the edges of the sash and changed color against the light which matched the gray Jacquard fabric of his button-up. His pants were a dark grey, pressed neatly and barely covering a pair of silver suede. On his wrists, he had violet bracers with lines curving an indistinct pattern around it, and to top off his entire ensemble, a violet ribbon wrapped around the circumference of his head, appearing every bit of an avant elven prince. 

“You know, I was having the best time in India if it weren’t for daddy dearest telling me I had to go to Scotland,” he sung — _no_ , actually breathed. "This whole time I was under the presumption that I’d be attending Beauxbatons, but I guess that hope was short-lived.”

His wand pointed at Ron, casting two healing spells in quick succession. Ron broke out of his concussion, coughing.

“But, I guess I’ll grace you with my presence,” Laviet said, clicking his tongue and smirking. “Roderick Laviet, a pleasure. After all, I do have the poise and etiquette to properly introduce myself.”

Draco was fuming. He turned to the two snickering boys and glared at them as if to say they were being imbecilic buffoons who couldn’t read a situation even if it smacked them across the face. “And, what would you know about poise and etiquette?"

Roderick smirked. The boy straightened, making a couple first years back up, so that he stood impossibly taller. Draco almost stumbled back as well.

“You, dolt,” he began, smiling like the cat who got the cream. His voice had changed as well, something more authoritative taking its place. "I’m part of the French Ministry.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, while Draco’s widened in recognition. It was as if he now put two and two together, both him and Draco, but for two completely different reasons. “You’re a liar! My father would have told me a Laviet was going to this school. All Laviets go to Beauxbatons; there’s never been a single member who hasn’t gone there!"

Laviet Jr’s smile only grew wider.

“Oh, Malfoy,” Laviet Jr tsked. “Just because you’re part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and have French liaisons, that doesn't mean you have the same power anywhere else. Those entitlements stop the moment you step your pretty little feet off of Britain.” 

Junior waved his wand and a translucent, three-dimensional image of Grecian architecture popped up. Harry didn’t know what he was staring at, but Draco seemed to, particularly when it zoomed into the centermost piece of the architecture to a monument of a woman holding a blue torch. “The only way you could possibly know about my whereabouts is if your father was part of the Royal Family. As it stands, you’re neither part of the royal family or French blue blood. That or the Malfoy family must have stooped so low so that you’ve infiltrated even the Royal Guard.”

“You take that back now!”

Roderick only smirked, circling the boy like a hawk. “Why should I? Shouldn’t it be my job to keep you in your place when your father can’t even keep his own kin under control?"

Draco was livid. If looks could kill, Roderick would be fifty feet under.

“Stop bringing my father into this!” Draco shrieked uselessly, even the blonde seemed to realize how pointless that statement was.

“But, you seem every bit of a daddy’s boy at just one glance. What’s the fun in that? I only followed my father’s orders because he brings up an irrefutable point. That is, Hogwarts needs a little bit of first. Class. Spice."

The only warning Draco gave was a hiss before he lunged. Roderick sidestepped, appearing to find great amusement in playing with the blonde. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint and ducked away from another attack. “Can we please discuss how stupid you’re being?” he ducked again. "I’ve brought along some high grade tea leaves, so we could talk through this more logically. Grandmother even gifted me some freshly-pluck roses to share with friends. The petals add more flavor to the tea, if I do say so myself.”

“I don’t need roses, you pansy!”

Naturally, this only fueled Roderick more. “Why? You have a problem with a feminine man?”

Draco gave out the most undignified of shrieks and resorted to scratching at the boy’s face. But, it was like his nails could never clip the strawberry blonde because he came out unscathed by the time the other blonde exhausted himself. 

“I mean a feminine man might do you some good, little Malfoy,” Junior teased, smiling wide and winking.

Draco could only groan at this point, and Harry almost broke into a fit of laughter, if it weren't for the symphony of _Professor_ s that prevented him from doing so. Curious himself, he tried looking over the heads of the taller students but eventually found the efforts futile.

Harry heard Laviet mutter a quick spell, and Draco’s face morphed back to normal. Malfoy noticed as he shot Roderick a look of utter contempt, but kept his mouth shut regardless.

“What is the meaning of this?” a stern, feminine voice asked, parting the crowd with such ease that she reached the four boys in no time. Along with the professor, an outline of a huge man was silhouetted under the dark forest, adjacent to the platform. “Must I ask again, the meaning of this? Prefects!”

A lanky boy with a shiny gold-red badge stepped up, hair singed at the sides. Harry turned to Ron who only shrugged as if resigning to the fact that he had far too many siblings just as Draco implied.

“We’re sorry Professor McGonagall. We tried our best to contain the situation, but soon found ourselves helpless to the foray." 

Collective groans echoed in the night. A couple expressed how he was an idiot, and two sounded suspiciously like the twins. McGonagall pinned them down with a look of disapproval.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Weasley. To all of you. Fifty points from each House.”

If possible, that drew more objections from the crowd, saying that her verdict was impossible since it would leave every House in the negative. 

“I wouldn’t have to resort to such methods if all of you acted like the adults you are,” McGonagall directed this to the older years; the last to the young ones. “And the bright representatives that you will surely become. The students who will come out of Hogwarts with the respect and praise that’s as reputable as this school.”

“Now, come,” she ushered as a small crowd of older students with sparkling badges corralled the student population. When the first years got closer to the large silhouette, Harry realized it was none other than the half-giant he knew so well. “First years. Please go to Hagrid. The prefects, those like Mr. Weasley, will be able to assist you if you don’t know who Hagrid is. He’s at the gates, waiting, and do hurry, the Welcoming Feast is about to begin.”

“Ov'r 'ere!” Hagrid’s voice boomed above the cacophony of voices and rustling. “'rst y'rs ov'r 'ere! Gotta get to the boats!”

McGonagall with her pointy hat and pristine robes stood in the middle of the crowd as they skirted around her. She swivelled only when she found no other evidence of further shenaniganry, however, missed the look the twins exchanged as soon as she turned her back to them.

The stern professor strode back to the edge of the platform, disappearing with a _crack!_ before Harry could comprehend what just happened.

“Disapparition!” Hermione marveled, crowd thinning, until the only students left were the first years. “We don’t learn that until we’re of age!”

Harry had a feeling if he looked past the girl’s inherent ability to spout random factoids, he could learn a lot without having to crack a book open. “Is it like a muggle driver’s license?”

The bushy-haired girl nodded her head enthusiastically and clapped her hands together to press the tips of her fingers to her lips like a silent prayer. “Makes traveling loads better! No portkeys or fireplaces needed. You just have to know the location! 

"But, how could she apparate back into Hogwarts when there’s wards preventing anyone from apparating in? Magic’s incredible. I can’t wait!”

 _Definitely a walking dictionary_. He turned to search for Junior and found him and Malfoy near a carriage. They were walking a distance apart, reestablishing the gap every time they got too close. In the confusion of trying to get everyone to their destination, Laviet had changed into his Hogwarts uniform.

“Harry can join me. Malfoys have been in Hogwarts since the start and who better to acquaint him to the school than a Malfoy himself."

“And, I’m pretty sure _the_ Harry Potter would have a better chance with the Weasley you felt so obligated to embarrass. The Sacred Twenty-Eight is a meaningless load of bullshit when names like Black no longer hold the weight they used to. You’re just yapping nonsense. Next!”

Draco growled, and Harry thought a fight would break out again, but then, Hagrid was there, pulling Draco and his gang into one carriage. It reminded Harry that he needed to get in one himself. It was just that when he turned back around, there was no one there and only one remained in the clearing.

It was empty upon arrival, and he thought he’d be by himself, a nice turnabout after the ruckus that he instigated not so long ago. He needed a breather to recollect his thoughts. 

Then, the vehicle tilted as a newcomer stepped in.

_Junior._

The boy who seemed to practically bounce off the walls had stripped any last bit of that shroud and left it outside. The one who situated himself across Harry felt like a completely different person. And surprisingly, Harry wasn't perturbed by it. He had his own masks as well. If anything, it gave him some comfort that someone else had to pretend.

“You have an accent, something your father doesn’t have.” Harry stated after only hearing the sound of clopping for a good while.

Roderick didn’t question his statement nor wonder who the other boy was. Thomas must have told him.

“I grew up in France most of my life,” Roderick replied reticently, avoiding eye contact with Harry. “Father is more of a freelancing spirit. You can’t put him into one place.”

Strange. He was more closed off than Harry realized. The facade he wore like a glove was more like his father than the person who was opposite him. However, the boy gave him more comfort than his father ever could. Harry embraced any form of kindness, but he still held deference towards those who spoke meaningfully through their actions. Those who had no voice but moved with a purpose. Because, sometimes, that was all they had. 

“He met you in the Muggle world?”

Harry nodded blankly, unsurprised by the sight of the dark-winged creatures pulling the carriage. It did a hybrid of a whinny and a shriek every now and then, clopping turning to a gallop towards what appeared to be an obsidian black lake. Over the body of trees, he could make out the rooftops of a Medieval castle spiraling up from a tall hill.

“In a library?”

Harry frowned and stared at Roderick. The shadows that fell over his shoulder made him look grim, a polar opposite to his hair that seemed to shine like a beacon in the dark. Those turquoise orbs stared back, glowing but coiling into itself every few seconds. There truly was a sad ambience about the blonde, and Harry could only say that because there was nothing to distract him now unlike out in the open. “Didn’t he tell you?"

The strawberry blonde frowned, mirroring his.“I don’t really know my father.”

Harry's wild hair grew impossibly wilder in the wind. That certainly was a revelation Harry hadn’t been anticipating. He thought his father talked about him a lot. Laviet sounded like a very affectionate man, especially when it came to children. And, he knew that affection a little too well, so he found it really hard to envision the man being anything but. The confusion in his head must have been written on his face because Roderick laughed. A laugh that chimed with a crestfallen ring. 

“My father’s good with other people but when it comes to me, he treats me as if I’m not there sometimes.” he played around with something in his pocket. It was the size of his hand. “See this? It was something my gran‘mère found in America. It’s kind of like a rosary. Whenever I’m feeling down, I take it out, look at it, and just roll it around my hands, and I feel good as new."

Beads of gold and ruby spilled out his pocket and looped on his lap, matching those that glittered on his side. In the dark, it felt just how the boy described it: his mood lightened. 

“Father considered Ilvermorny as well. It’s a Wizarding school in America. He didn’t like the idea of me being in Europe crawling wi-“ he paused as if remembering himself. Harry was curious about what he was about to say, but didn’t press. "I guess that was the only time he actually showed that he cared for me. I mean, Beauxbatons is wonderful, but I felt as if he genuinely cared for my well-being when he thought of Ilvermorny. I actually liked it better in America. There’s this place in New York...”

Harry droned him out, biting his lip and digging his nails into the palm of his hands. The confession struck a little close to home. It just needed to substitute not knowing his parents and what it meant to actually be loved by a mum or a dad. Harry was debating whether to speak up about his own situation, but felt like it wouldn’t do much, looking at the boy who looked as if he were at the verge of tears. The elven persona he projected so well out there was completely gone and left in his place was the actual child. The child both of them were and shouldn't have been.

There probably were no words out there to console the other. He couldn’t just say that he understood. Because when his father was off in another country and the blonde was left wondering when he’d see his father again, the man was off corresponding with another kid as if they were his own child. Teaching the kid things he should have taught his own son. Telling stories that only his son should have heard. Giving him courage when he didn't have. 

Harry couldn’t even say he went through the same thing and that everything would be fine when he knew that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t in his shoes, and Harry knew it personally that if someone were to tell him such a thing, the pain wouldn’t magically go away. It’d still be there even if you plastered a smile on your face. The only difference was that it just lay dormant as more time passed.

And then there lay the fact that Harry wasn’t comforted by the idea of sharing his personal life to strangers. Laviet didn’t even know. And, he could only assume the man suspected something. But, he took quite a liking to the boy. Possibly, more than all the people he met. He respected him deeply for the chinks in his armor that he was willing to bare, and the bravery he had to have to admit to someone he hardly knew. Perhaps, it was because he was a stranger. Perhaps, it was the dark. Perhaps, it was because he wanted to get to know the boy better, just to reflect what his father was like if the attention was given to the right person. To share just a little bit of what he had missed. 

So, it didn't rest easy with Harry to see the other boy shedding his tears silently, but all Harry could do was allow him his space. He had the feeling the other boy didn’t mean to reveal all that, but he had a sneaking suspicion hearing about your dad treating another child like their own son must have really affected him. He surmised that the other boy overheard about his father's activities. He seemed pretty nonplussed about Harry initially.

The carriage pulled to a stop, making Roderick wipe hastily at his face. The creatures at the front gave a piercing yowl that Harry had to cover his ears. The other boy paused mid-wipe, shooting him a confused look, and Harry just played it off as if he had something above his ears. It didn’t seem too convincing, but the other boy took it. He jumped out of the carriage first, pulling up his flamboyant facade when under the moonlight, any trace of the sad boy ceased. “You may call me Rick, by the way.”

The boy grinned, lips pulled taut that Harry was momentarily caught off guard at how he hadn’t notice earlier. How much the boy was acting. How unsteady his false pretense was. He was still a kid after all. They both were. 

“And, just to set things straight,” he said this lowering his voice down an octave. "I’m not mad at you, and I don’t think I ever will.” — Rick surveyed the lake, only glancing back to him when he did a full sweep of the area — “I can’t stay mad at someone who I never really got to know yet.”

“And, I really do have roses and tea leaves,” he added, turquoise searching his own emeralds. "They may not be father’s Earl Grays but it’s worth a shot.”

Harry didn’t even have a chance to reply because he disappeared into the mob of students. He tried to run after him, but the strawberry blonde seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He did find Draco though, and while he was still upset at how he treated Ron, he was sidetracked with trying to find Rick among the other boats that he ended up getting into the very one the other blonde was in. He only noticed when Draco couldn’t stop acting smug, yelling at Ron who was actually a boat behind with Hermione and Rick next to him.

Even worse, Harry didn’t get to catch up to the other three because McGonagall was posted at the other side of the lake. By the time they reached it, the professor was ushering them to the castle. And, the trek up to the castle was dealt with ease; the moon highlighting the path to the school perfectly. Well, at least Harry thought. One kid kept stumbling over roots which upset a couple students who got involved into the mess. According to the boy, his frog kept escaping his hold every time he tried to reign it in. The chestnut-haired boy must have been the Neville that Hermione was helping out earlier. He was also in the same boat as Hermione.

McGonagall, who couldn’t stand the boy’s clumsiness anymore, charmed — at least that’s what she threatened the boy in the early stages — Neville so that he was floating behind her like a backpack. The other kids couldn’t stop giggling at the sight he made, and Harry got the front seat to Draco teasing which only resulted in Rick firing his own shots. And, this went on for a while until the first years piled up inside what looked to be the front hall of Hogwarts. Evidently, Hogwarts couldn't be Hogwarts without taking medieval to the next level as Harry stretched his neck to gape at the knights lining up the parameter of the wall. There were some flickering scriptures underneath their feet, but Harry couldn’t observe them for too long because the great, big doors had opened, and he got a face full of floating candles and a clear night sky. 

Hermione, the precious girl, rambled on about how the sky was an enchanted ceiling and was a thing she read in _Hogwarts: A History_. Harry almost rolled his eyes. It was good to know everything was in this book she read, but she was talking everyone’s ear off. Harry and Ron got the full brunt of it back in the train. She wouldn’t shut up about classes, and how different the school would be from the Muggle world. And while Harry was intrigued as well, he wasn’t as annoyingly vocal about his curiosity. She only quieted down when McGonagall instructed the first years what to do for the Sorting. The infamous hat was standing on the stool, but bore no presence Harry could remember it by, making Harry’s theory about chance sound true.

Most of the first years went to Gryffindor. With a few going to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and fewer to Hufflepuff. Even Hermione was sorted to Gryffindor like she wanted, though Harry still pegged her more of a Ravenclaw than a lion. He guessed talking people’s head off was considered brave.

“Laviet, Roderick.”

Roderick maneuvered around Harry, and Harry sent him a smile that he returned back. He was certain the boy would be sorted into Gryffindor, but then, the hat yelled, “HUFFLEPUFF!” 

The placement only affirmed the raven-haired boy’s other speculation about the Hat as he watched Junior waltz toward the Hufflepuff table, already striking a conversation with one of the first years. The boy had chocolate locks and a feminine face which got Draco blabbering. At this point, Harry was unsure if he wanted to be with the boy because his child-like mannerisms entertained him or the fact Harry wanted to know how the blonde would grow out of the phase. In the end, Harry concluded he wanted to hang out with the boy for both reasons.

On the other hand, the boy who kept losing his frog was also sorted into Gryffindor, while Draco was, expectedly, sorted into Slytherin. The blonde had a wide smirk on his face, practically leaping off his stool as his housemates cheered for him. It seemed the Malfoy name was truly as prevalent as Draco made it sound, just as the Laviet name was. After all, he didn’t miss the chagrined air that settled over the other Houses when they heard Roderick’s Sorting, particularly Gryffindor table. 

“Potter, Harry.”

The whole hall fell silent, even the staff table stopped mid-conversation. Mid everything. 

He took a hefty inhale and squeezed between two bodies who both stepped out of the way easily. And though it didn't seem like it, the short distance it took to reach the stool felt like a century. Professor McGonogall held the hat in her hand and nodded at Harry, who took the seat and faced the music. Everyone looked like they were about to jump out of their seats, air crackling with the suspense of where the Boy Who Lived would be sorted. Even the ’normally’ composed blonde was leaning over his seat at the Slytherin table.

Without warning, McGonogall placed the hat on his head, and the first thing Harry felt was the thing breathing down his face. He felt an uncomfortable tug in his head, and his first instinct was to hide from the prodding going in and around his mental walls.

 _Interesting_ , a voice whispered in distortion. The world around Harry warped out of focus and only cleared when he found himself transported in a different place. He had a certain impression that he was currently in his own mind, but oddly enough, he also felt that he still had full control over his outer body. And, that filled Harry with nothing but relief because he wanted nothing more than to take the hat by its tip and throw it roughly to the ground. _Hiding, aren’t you?_

Harry wanted to do just that, but then, a tall pillar manifested in front of him. And, another before he realized he had control in his own mind as well. He hid behind one of the pillars and held his breath as he constructed more so the whole room was filled with floor-to-ceiling monoliths. Whenever the thing touched a fragment of his thoughts or a piece of his memory, it felt like a bucket of slime was pouring over his skin and soaking right through it. To say it was uncomfortable was an understatement. Although he wanted to hide from whatever it was, he just wanted the thing out!

_Very interesting._

He made deep purple curtains swing down between each of the pillars he constructed, but if anything, that only made the voice chuckle more.

_Harry, there’s no need to be afraid._

The very boy in question made metal vines sprawl down the fabric and interlaced them over each other to create a makeshift fence. He constructed a bunch of bricks to support the blockade all around his head and his sides in the shape of a dome and continued doing so until he was nose-to-nose with his own creation. When he thought he had built an impenetrable fortress around himself, the bricks smashed inwards that he feared it would consume him whole. That was, until he watched it reverse and explode outwards. In the center, a blinding, white figure materialized, and it took him a moment to realize the shape was moving closer towards him, until it was a centimeter away, tsking.

“You are very interesting, but still… **foolish**.”

It felt like the thing slapped him, but that was impossible.

“I’ve worked with many minds, but yours is a first.”

He walked around him, eyeing him carefully and smirking once Harry could see him again.

“You’re the embodiment of the Hat.”

It laughed. It had no eyes and was pure light through and through. There was nothing to visually assess but his voice to discern its emotions, as it had no facial features to show either. It was simply put, a three-dimensional blob, and nothing else. And, nothing frightened Harry more than interacting with an entity that had no facial cues. “Astute observation. But, you are aware of what I can do. You just refused to believe it. I could put you in Slytherin. After all, you did attempt hiding from this Sorting with this crazy assumption of what was it? Randomly placing you in a House without taking my guests’ desires into consideration.”

The boy blinked, gulping down air that he didn’t realize he stopped inhaling.

“But, then, I have a feeling you wouldn’t like being in the House of Snakes, just as much as you do not like me being inside your thoughts,” it continued. “But, then, I could put you into Gryffindor.” — the blob charged towards him, only to slide a hand down the length of his face — "You were brave but foolish enough to try and fight against me within your own mind.”

The glowing figure stepped away angrily, crouching when it stopped. "I could have made that blast paralyze and handicap you permanently by the time you swam back to reality, however, I’ve decided to leave you with a lasting impression. Something that delivers the same…effect.”

Harry stopped breathing again, and he thought it was due to the blob. But, he was very keen on the fact that the lack of oxygen in his own mental scape was his own doing. 

“I could also put you into Ravenclaw. Something tells me you could develop the skills to become an intelligent raven. And, Hufflepuff as well for an undying loyalty I see in your memories. Strong enough to die for but, you poor thing, you’re unaware.”

The figure stood up from his crouch. 

“Mr. Potter, based on your answer to this riddle,” it said, meandering away from him but voice as crisp as it had been when it was crouched. “I will sort you accordingly. There’s no right or wrong, only judgement based on your answer. Because a left hand ticks, when the right hand ticks enough. But, what if the hands don’t tick, and a pendulum swings? Or, a Newton’s cradle ticks left and right? Knowing this and despite their differences, they all have one thing in common. What am I?”

In any other circumstance, Harry would have been yelling at his captor to let him go. In any other circumstance, Harry would be fleeing from his captor the moment he was hit with fear. In any other circumstance, he would have found a way to fight his captor, especially when the captor was asking him to solve a riddle in the middle of his own head. 

But...

The riddle intrigued him. 

A clock. A pendulum. A cradle. At first he thought it had to do with time, but he got a gut feeling the Sorting Hat would sort him into Gryffindor. The riddle was geared to trap you into thinking it was time. The riddle began with a clock and transitioned to a pendulum, but ended with a cradle which broke the pattern.

But, why put a Newton’s cradle when its purpose was to depict a reaction? Laviet mentioned it when Harry asked how Dudley would grow up. He said a bigger bully had the greater potential of fixing his cousin than a bully who fought like Dudley. Otherwise, it would take time and more experiences before his cousin would realize his mistakes, if he ever came to that realization.

And, it was that very line of thought that made him realize time was also a reasonable response. Newton’s cradle eventually slowed down to a stop when no further action acted upon it. It wouldn’t have the same constant as a clock or a pendulum but time would be depicted nonetheless. Rather, a time over a constant. But, he would have to explain why, and his captor didn’t ask for a reason. So, Harry would continue assuming the position that it would be a Gyffindor response. 

Furthermore, wanting to provide an explanation, sounded a little Slytherin. A Ravenclaw would most likely answer without reasoning, especially if the question was posed in such a way that the inquirer didn't seek out an explanation. A Ravenclaw would only explain if asked in these situations. And, now pondering over it, there was a fine line between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. And, he certainly did not want to be housed in either of the two, even Gryffindor. They sounded too bold, as if everyone that knew everyone knew them. While Ron was the first genuine friend of his age and Draco entertained him, he didn’t want to risk being in either Gryffindor or Slytherin. And, while he wanted to be in a more neutral house, he didn’t like Ravenclaw because it would put him in a very visible position. With the Wizarding World’s grand ability to judge prematurely, having whispers that he was intelligent would spark more unwanted flames.

This led Harry to desire Hufflepuff. It sounded like the less visible of the three, and not to mention, if he was there, he had a hunch that the attention would split between him and Roderick. And so, he found himself trying to think up a storm. Trying to situate his mind into a Hufflepuff, but it was a difficult feat, as he didn’t know much about the house but their loyalty. Not to mention it was like trying to solve something that wasn’t you. If he went in the line of Ron’s thinking, he’d have to find an answer that was transparent enough to sound like a Hufflepuff made it and not a Gryffindor. However, it had to have less depth than a Ravenclaw.

“Your brain sounds like its about to go into apoplectics.”

He ignored the figure in his head.

Okay, back to square one. A clock. A pendulum. And, a Newton’s cradle. Answers related to their functions would land him into Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Answers that had little thought but were too overconfident sounded like a Gryffindor. How was he supposed to find the happy medium between those polar opposites? Sound?

No, they all made different sounds.

Feel?

There would have to be more than just the object’s names to help him with that, and even that sounded too Ravenclaw.

Shape?

Harry contemplated over the idea and thought of how a clock was round. How a pendulum was round, and how the balls on a Newton’s cradle were still round despite being inherently spherical due to dimensionality. And, then a thought hit him. Clocks ticked but the hands on a clock ticked in the same circular fashion no matter the starting point. At the same time, pendulums ticked back and forth, beginning at rest and ending at rest which could also be said about the Newton’s cradle. Thusly, only one word could link all three together.

“Circles,” Harry said.

There was a long stretch of silence in which Harry thought the Hat had left him. That was, until the blob shifted back into the plane and giggled. “You never fail to delight me, raven!”

What? 

How could a circle be the response of a Ravenclaw? There was no explanation in his head that could provide a solution to that question.

“You’re forgetting, boy. I can see your thoughts.”

Harry froze immediately and cursed himself.

It wasn’t the response, as much as it was the thought process itself. 

The thing saw it all!

“RAVENCLAW!”

He collapsed onto the floor, heaving. To his left, he felt someone run up to his side and crouch to his level. Their voice sounded as if they were submerged in water, right underneath thick glass. He had a hard time trying to piece together what they were saying when the hall sounded like it was drowned underwater. It made his head feel as if a bunch of pins were sticking into it. 

Another voice joined in the fray, much deeper than the first and much gentler. A hand touched his side, and a wash of warmth flooded through his belly and shot out to his limbs. It was enough to pull him out of the denial he dug himself in.

Harry smacked both hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Mr. Potter,” something murmured, soft but aged, just an inch away from his right ear. He felt his wand react to the voice, but he was far too unfamiliar to it to recognize whether it was good reaction or a bad one. He cracked an eye open, only to see his wand shoot out from underneath his robes and swirl in a circle on the floor, golden sparks skidding on the stone. Younger students nearby were screaming and running towards older students as the latter raised their wand arm up, ready to deflect anything from the rogue wand.

Robes swished sharply to his far right, and the wand stopped spinning on the ground. Harry didn’t bother crawling towards it. If he exhausted himself trying to find his Rosewood, he was drained completely now. His mental faculties since the trip with the Sorting Hat short-circuited. Though, something told him that wasn’t how the Sorting Hat was supposed to sort first years.

“Poppy,” that same voice said. "Take him to the hospital wing. Sorting will resume, and McGonagall, if you would, please assume my position after the Sorting. Severus, follow Poppy as well.”

He felt the gentle caress of hands lifting him upright. This seemed to improve his situation, as the nausea was slowly diminishing and the headache and the ringing were niggling only a small part of his mind. “Albus, I can’t take him immediately. Not until I get a timeframe on how quickly I have to work on any damages. Now, I’m about to cast a quick Diagnostic charm, dear. It won’t hurt a bit.”

Harry only grunted his response. It seemed the mental excursion he had had taken a huge toll out of his system because the ringing came back in full force. He slammed his palms back to his ears almost instinctively even when he knew it wouldn’t do anything. 

“Oh, dear.”

Harry floated up and horizontally, following the lady in old-fashioned medic wear. Ink black robes slapped his right cheek, and he looked up startled. At the same time, he felt some of the ringing and the sharp pinpricks in his head dissipate.

Emerald met onyx, and his scar burned profusely.

Without realizing it, his narrative turned eagerly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I made the main-ish art in the first chapter!*
> 
> And, I’m so sorry! The 2nd chapter had a lot of typos during Ron’s portion, especially when they start discussing the Houses and prejudice. Had to repost. You can reread if you'd like, especially if you read the same day I posted.


	4. pygmy p u f f s

“There’s hemorrhaging…Severus…antidote?…”

“…shouldn’t…how many days?”

“Need…supplies…Albus!”

“Progress…Flitwick.”

“…too sensitive…you’ll kill him!”

“He is…skilled…question…abilities?”

“Not a matter of questioning abilities…the child!”

“This is beyond your scope…”

“Flitwick could break the boy...may come out of this a blithering idiot!”

Harry woke up gasping, hurling in a tin bucket and a spell rushing down his throat.

 

❅❅❅

 

“You blood traitor. You're the real reason Harry’s sick! If you never met him. If you never spoke to him, you’re dirty blood would have never made him ill!”

“I thought dirty blood was something you only called Muggleborns!”

“Muggleborns are not dirty-blooded!"

“I call anyone what I please, and really Granger, have you looked at yourself?”

“Does that include making love to the words you call them? And, Hermione here, she's a _real_ darling.”

“Shut up, Laviosa boy.”

“Your feathers are so fun to ruffle. Oh, don’t give me that look. Laviosa boy? That’s as bad as what I said. And, no, not you Hermione. Don't you fret. You’re beautiful, and never let any blonde pygmy puff say otherwise. Plus, I wouldn’t have said anything if you weren’t about to bend yourself backwards in confusion. It’s not even a spell we learn this week."

“ _Harry_ !”

 

❅❅❅

He blinked at the web-like structure beneath his feet that was transparent enough to provide a full view of the never ending pit below. The ground he walked on was an off-white bordering beige with blackened branches sticking out randomly. He had no autonomy over his body, but was moving forward to a figure in the center where all the other similar looking paths converged seamlessly together. The figure was a man in a cloak. He had shoulder length hair and was standing stock still. He didn’t twitch, much less seem to breathe. For the briefest of moments, Harry was sure it was a statue, but it wasn’t until the figure turned around that he discovered it wasn’t a statue at all. 

“Potter."

The world twisted around him, and they were now in an office. Jarred specimens bobbing up and down. Vertebrae twisting in permanence. Organs of unidentifiable origins were squished together, and oils of a questionable source were bottled in flasks. A pinewood incense permeated the entire room and seemed to calm Harry down who was acutely aware of his hair sticking uncomfortably on his face and of sweat dribbling down to his chin. His upper lip was also saturated with sweat. His whole body was saturated with sweat.

“Again! _Block_. Me. Out. The Dark Lord will not be forgiving. Legilimens!”

He felt the prodding that he did during the Sorting, except this felt more brutal. It felt like flames were licking patterns into his head over and over again. Like it didn’t want to stop. Like it refused to stop. That it didn’t know how to stop.

“G-”

His resistance encouraged the intruder as it tore into more memories with newfound fervor. Of a bushy-haired girl and a red head. Of a dead boy in front of a gravestone and a man with shaggy hair that smiled of a tragedy.

“G-“ he continued to choke, feeling more sweat dribble down in droves. “Get out!"

“Then, _con_ -centrate.”

He swiped through a memory of a little town and of an older looking Draco scampering away. Which turned into a decaying room with the man harboring a broken smile to freeing the very man from a cell that eased into days in a dark but comforting home where portraits screamed and the man yelled murder. And then, he was throttled forward again; the professor slithering behind him, sniffing out what seemed to be more recent memories. Memories that were less hazier than the others. Of being in a mirrored room and a mistletoe sprouting above his head. Of a girl with a watery smile who was then pressing her wet lips onto his. Of seeing a moving frame of the dead boy’s face smiling up to him in exaltation. Of him pulling away and other students piling into-

“Legilimens!” Harry roared, successfully pushing the man out of his head and now finding himself submerged in a stream — a river — of memories. There was a girl with flaming red hair and vibrant green eyes, and he inadvertently followed the flow of that specific memory as it reeled him into a more solid recapture of the event. A teenage boy with greasy hair had a nose stuck inside a book who had their world abruptly tipped upside down as three figures stalked up to him, the ringleader holding the largest and nastiest smirk.

“Snivellus!”

He caught movement in the corner of his eye, and his eyes connected to a younger version of the man who not a second ago had intruded into his mind. But, he also felt as if the boy’s gaze was off center. Like he was staring at him but not staring _at him_. Either way, he watched as the boy struggled at his invisible binds and the fight dissolve all at once.

“What do you want Potter?”

His body was still spinning like a disco ball.

“Oh, nothing,” the ringleader purred, frolicking around the younger professor’s body. He was almost like Dudley, Harry admitted to himself, but scrawnier, a greater tease, and appearing more and more like an older version of himself which was a peculiarity as this teen could have been mistaken for his twin if it weren’t for the eyes. Behind him, a familiar face pranced after the bully, less subdued than the one he saw in the memories of, dare he say, this…dream?

At the edge of what gave Harry the impression was the exact same lake the first years had to cross, there was a prefect. He wore confusion like makeup that settled atop physical scarring which twisted and stretched over what could have been a handsome face. If anything, Harry’s own confusion mirrored that of the Gryffindor. Wasn’t it his job to stop this bullying? There was no denying that he was utterly horrified. Horrified how the handsome boy didn’t even bat a lash at the situation. He, for all intents and purposes, felt like the individual had personally betrayed him. 

“A little birdie told me that you needed attention,” the ringleader squealed, circling around him once more. “And, so, here I am!”

He could almost feel the professor rolling his eyes.

“And, would that bird be Pettigrew?” the professor queried resignedly. From the intelligent spark Harry could glean from the boy, Harry began to wonder why he hadn’t bothered undoing the very spell he was trapped in. He did a quick once over and grimaced.

“Precisely!” the shaggy haired lackey grinned boyishly.

“Sirius…"

The person in question tilted his head at the prefect, but the prefect didn’t say much else. Just turned around, continuing to ignore what was going on, standing like an odd parody of being on the ‘lookout'.

“Jame-sie!” the lackey cried in a sing-song voice when he realized the prefect had nothing to say to him. “Why don’t we try the bat-ty bogey hex on Snivellus here? The jinx practically drips for its namesake!"

‘Jamesie’ himself visibly shuddered and watched the giggling boy in barely contained repulsion. “Dear, you’re sounding a little too much like your cousin.”

Sirius landed on the balls of his feet and pinched his face together in a mild scowl. “Got a little carried away.”

“Little’s an understatement.”

The shaggy-haired man shivered. 

“We could try,” a meek voice spoke up, but strangely enough, it held an impact as it received Sirius, James's — and even the prefect’s — attention. Attention that spelled badly for the young professor as James turned back with a wider smirk than what he first adorned swaggering in.

“Oh, Snivellus!” he sang, twirling his wand until the tip was touching his nose, making the poor boy cross-eyed. “Why don’t we try something new?”

The spell — or hex— was at the tip of his tongue. Harry could practically see him rolling the incantation for it in his mouth. Could visibly see the words on his lips, but all that came out were choked gasps. As if someone was squeezing his larynx and pulling it taut. Flaming red stepped beside the assailant and imbued the air with the same fury that wrought her petite face. It was then that Harry’s emeralds connected with the same shade that colored his own.

“Put him down. Put him down right now!”

The subject to her very demand was the very essence of bewilderment, whipping his head back and forth, still gasping for breath.

“Now, James!” the woman growled while she released him from her spell.

“Liberacorpus,” the James boy whispered, and the professor came falling down in a heap.

“You must understand,” the James boy started nervously. “He was being rude. Rude to Sirius and I.”

Sirius simply nodded his head and shook his head in mock melancholy, and the girl laughed. Emeralds bleeding into a darker shade of incandescent green. “Liar! You’ve been bullying him since you first laid eyes on him. You all have,” she said this to the prefect who lingered awkwardly at the side. "Leave him alone. Leave Severus and I alone!”

“But, Lily!”

“Go. Away!” she shrieked, patting the professor down for any injury and found none. “You’ve done enough.”

“Bu-“

“Go!” Lily glared at him that all four boys recoiled back instinctively. 

“James,” the prefect warned, walking up and pulling at his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll all get in trouble if we stay. You know it.”

James looked as if he were about to protest further, but one more glance at Lily spoke for her as all four went scrambling out of their sight. With only the two of them there, the girl, Lily, shifted her worried gaze to Severus. A blue light came out of her wand, and she waved it over the professor’s body. Harry watched the relief wash over the girl’s face.

“I was so worried,” she breathed, pushing the sticky strands of hair from the boy’s face. “Why won’t they leave you alone?”

“I was doing fine,” the professor muttered petulantly.

Lily huffed. “Your definition of fine means intentionally situating yourself into harm’s way by the very bullies that have taunted you since you were eleven. We both know that you perfectly know the counter-jinx!”

“So?”

This riled the girl up more as she stood, towering over the professor. “So? _So_?! Is that all you’re going to say after weeks of slinking away in god forbid where doing Merlin knows what? And, excuse me for sounding every manner of unintelligible, but I was worried about you. For _weeks_. No, ‘I’m okay Lily’ in writing, or ‘Don’t worry about me’ in person when we're practically seat mates in class. If not, across another! And, all you say is: ‘So’? ’So’?! ’So’ is if we were mere acquaintances. ’So’ is a greeting told to accomplices who team up with you for some quick mischief but never meet again! Which neither defines our relationship! How dare you? How dare you cast away my worries like- like-“

“Lily, would you please — shut up,” the boy intoned, shocking both Harry and the recipient herself. It seemed that the boy never demanded such a thing in his life, given how surprised the girl looked at the interruption.

“‘Shut up’?” she recited monotonously.

“Yes,” Severus snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut up.”

Harry could feel the energy vibrating in the air. Feel the same vicious ripples that grappled it when Lily stepped in. It was a thousand times more violent. “Severus Tobias Snape.”

This only made the boy frown, making the dark circles under his eyes more prominent. “Lily, please.”

“No, stop right there!” she choked, holding up a finger and wagging it at him. “Just because you’ve been dabbling about the Dark Arts. Just because you’re more interested in their history and their uses more than any friend I’ve known. That doesn’t mean our friendship has to be on shaky ground.”

Harry felt the air visibly shift around the professor. “Now, Lily. Dabbling? Dabbling is a label one would call useless cretins like Potter and Black.”

Lily laughed, tipping her head back. Despite the red flags surfacing, Harry could see the girl’s beauty in that very moment. A very pure one that one could rarely find walking smack-dab in the middle of a street. A sight for sore eyes.

“Then, what do you call Malfoy? Mulciber and Avery? Mindless, shoe-kissing, tactless baboons?"

Severus growled, but the girl stood her ground. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The girl laughed again, green eyes vibrant than ever. “Oh, I very well know what I’m talking about. With startling clarity, in fact.”

“Then, do enlighten me” Severus challenged which only received an answering smirk, one that bellied unparalleled retribution.

“You don’t have to impress anyone with Dark Magic, Sev,” her voice softer, making Harry get a whiplash from her unexpected shift in approach. Even Severus appeared startled. “We all know they’re simply going to use you in the end. Joining them will be of no benefit to you. I know you, Sev.”

With this, she kneeled and took his hand in her own. "I know the goodness in you. The goodness I saw when we first met. That we both saw. Just continue being the person you are, but don’t be like them. Don’t be a follower, kowtowing to some sociopathic, suicidal leader. You’re not like the others. You’ve heard the rumors. Of the terrible things they do. To a large group of people. To us Muggleborns. You’re better than that. So much more, and I know that you know that, my dear friend.”

Harry could see the sentiment had already hooked the professor the moment she spoke. How he gazed at her with unquestionable reverence and a just a hint of some buried emotion. It was all there, written on his face, waiting to be said if it weren’t for what she said last. Harry saw the change as soon as the other boy picked himself up from the ground and brushed away at the dirt and grass on his robes. As he tried to make a semblance of order in the otherwise disorder. How he used his height to intimidate her, and how she stood unwaveringly despite his efforts.

“And what would you know about the likes of Malfoy?” he began darkly, shaking his hand away. “Nothing. We’re force-fed everyday that Dark Magic is bad. Assume that it turns every practitioner mad, but it won’t happen. You know that as well. If it’s me, you know it won’t happen."

Lily flinched. “But that’s exactly what I’m worried about. You’re ego eluding the fact that it’s dangerous!”

“It’s not dangerous!”

“Sev, it-“

“Just shut up, Lily! Shut up!”

“ _Severus_ ,” she glowered, hair crackling.

“For one second, could you be in my shoes and see it from my perspective? How hard it was all those years? How desperately I sought for a mentor but came up empty-handed?! Barely stomaching the watered down versions of how beautiful the Dark Arts is — could be! All I’ve done was read about it. Read the beautiful craftsmanship behind the art! Not how to wield it! Not how I can use that knowledge in the grander scheme. For the Magical community. How much research I could contribute to help against all these unknowns in Dark Magic!”

“But, you’re not stopping there!” Lily objected helplessly. “Here, the means don’t justify the ends! You want to join them.”

“And, what’s so bad about that?” he hissed. "I need someone to teach me. To allow me to see its beauty. The beauty and precise allure that Dark Magic holds at its finest. The Dark Lord promised.”

Lily choked, fear ebbing its way into her features. Something about the way she looked at him appeared to unsettle the professor for he stopped midstride. The look on his face appeared as if she’d accused him of something far worse. Condoned him to a far worse accusation when she hadn’t even opened her mouth to voice her opinion, the words stuck in her throat and having a hard time creating the syllables that formed them.

“You don’t know anything,” Severus revealed in a droll, the pair of them making a heartbreaking scene against the castle’s silhouette. “You never tried to understand. You never wanted to. Of course you wouldn’t. You’re just like them. You’re just like the rest of them. Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew. Always judging. Always criticizing. But, from you? It’s so much worse. But, of course you would. There was some part of me that knew it would come to this point.”

Harry held his breath. The way he was speaking. It felt like he was delivering a final blow. A blow he wasn’t sure Lily nor he were ready for, but the scowling boy charged forward as brave as a Gryffindor himself.

“You’re just a Mudblood anyways."

The girl’s face crumpled. 

“I don’t need your help."

Tears sprung out of her eyes. The rosy hue that painted the girl’s cheeks dimmed, and her face paled to a sickening grey.

“Why?” was all she uttered, and then, she ran just as Harry was pulled out of the memory and staring straight into a livid pair of obsidian eyes. No sooner did he blink, the office shifted again, and those same obsidians were staring at him from below. He had the same tear tracks that engraved itself into Harry’s memory, but on a different face. They stared straight into Harry’s emerald orbs with an affection so off-putting. So off-place on the man. 

“You,” he garbled, more tears trickling down his face that was coloring a disturbing shade of marble. It sent Harry into a panic. The blood was gushing out of his neck in mockery, and initially, Harry thought the cuts on his neck and the blood loss were the main reasons for the man’s change in pallor. But, further inspection revealed that it wasn’t simply from the cuts — which looked more like animal bites than they were cuts. Simply put, the professor was either poisoned or suffering through some infection the creature had carried. He tried sorting through the tidbits of information that he knew of first aid, but he came up blank. He didn’t know how to actively react to these situations because he had no theory to draw upon. He just knew that if the professor didn’t get help soon, he’d be nothing but dead! 

And, bezoars were too outdated!

“You have your mother’s eyes,” the professor gasped.

And, that was how the Boy Who Lived woke up, chugging down a tonic that tasted of cough medicine, eggs, and spoilt milk.

A Ravenclaw, with a pin on his chest, quickly strode up to his bed. He exchanged a look with the Hospital Wing matron and nodded at her. The pin read Head Boy, and he refilled the glass of water without lifting a finger or uttering a single incantation. He set a couple of parchments down next to the glass before he levitated the drink towards Harry.

Harry took it, gulping it down slowly and stomach still feeling like it was tied with a rope and hung in a noose.

“I heard drinking a lot of fluids helps with the Brægen Gróp.”

At the moment, he didn’t want to ask. The Head Boy filled more water in the cup, pulling out a roll of parchment from his robe pocket and handing it to Harry. The raven hair took it, flattening it out while running his eyes through the fine script.

“Your timetable. You missed Professor Flitwick distributing them a couple days ago. He’s our Head of House.”

Objects started zooming around the both of them, too quick for Harry to identify.

"I still kept some of my first year notes and know it will be of use to you. It should be enough to fill in the details. Potions and Defense, in particular. They don’t start off easy.”

The raven-haired boy zeroed in to those two words and found them to be the classes for today. 

“Do you remember what happened?”

Harry shook his head, jostling his hair around in a further state of disarray.

“Can you talk?”

He cleared his throat, attempting to clear the roughness there, and when he was certain he could talk without his voice cracking, he still managed to croak, “Yes.”

The Head Boy levitated the cup back to Harry again. He tried to decline, but the cup simply zoomed closer to his lips that he had no choice but to open his mouth as the liquid tipped. 

“It’s an ancient spell,” the coif of his hair as immaculate as the words that dripped out of his tongue. “The Headmaster and the professors are working hard to determine the origin, but the Sorting Hat is the same as it’s always been. No signs of tampering. No signs of possession. The same old, dingy hat that’s as senile as the portraits in the Headmaster’s office.”

Just thinking about that incident made him want to sick all over the place again. 

“Extremely rare spell too if I do say so myself. Has Quirrell, Flitwick, and even Snape in a twist. But, names aren’t important. You’ll know them all in due time.”

The same glass was brought to his lips again, and he downed it reluctantly.

“You do need a lot of fluids, Harry. I don’t care what Pomfrey says,” the older boy said bitterly. “It's the only way to alleviate any of the lingering symptoms. Doesn’t matter how many of Snape’s concoctions she shoves down your throat, or the charms Flitwick have casted.”

The glass came back to his mouth, and to his disbelief, it was working. He should have been vomiting all over himself by now, but oh, how wrong he was!

“Igrham Zimmers. Head Boy of Hogwarts, here to ensure that you have the necessary tools to succeed in both Ravenclaw as well as overcoming this predicament,” the boy confessed, waving a hand at his figure. "I’m a fellow Raven myself and find that it is my duty to guide you.”

As if reminding him, the blue badge beamed up at him when he glanced at his side table. He took a wary look at it and internally sighed. Was there no hope to convince the Hat he wanted to be in Hufflepuff? It did say it would consider his input, but the experience was in contradiction to the hat’s statement. _Don’t tell me, I had to argue with the dratted thing._ Thinking about that made his head hurt all over again.

“You can nod or shake your head from here on out, though you should be fine by the end of your first class. I’ll be walking you to Defense, since most of the students are already heading to their own classes and won't be able to assist you themselves.”

Frowning, the Head Boy muttered about his lack of foresight and gathered the parchments in the air with a simple wave of his wand. The curtains he didn't know existed closed around him.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” came his muffled voice.

Harry grabbed the hem of his hospital gown and pulled it over his head. He found that under his robes were undergarments and his shirt, socks, trousers. Those were easily tugged on as he finally slipped into his robes, emblem still shining brightly under the daylight. There was a tie there, and it took some trial and error to have it knotted passably around his neck.

With a bravery he didn’t know he had, he grabbed the edge of the curtain and pulled, almost poking his eye with the Rosewood that greeted him. Igrham muttered an apology and scratched his head.

The blushing boy stepped back and directed Harry towards the door, though Harry wasn’t as quick about it as his companion. He took the whole room in, probably the longest since stepping foot into this new world. He liked the feel it had. That it felt like a home with all its sterile equipment and the linens. With all the sketches that splattered the walls showing its history and knowledge. How similar the pencil works were to Carter’s illustrations. And, how in lieu of medicines, potions of all sorts lined up cabinets. It threw him back to the days in the library when the scent of roses enveloped the grounds and the sun lightly caressed their skin as Sir Laviet and he sat side-by-side. Of times when the Laviet would give him a mini lectures or silently pass him some new notecards or sticky notes to aid him. 

Harry could barely contain his excitement and curiosity. A child-like awe that peaked when he caught sight of the textbooks shelved into bookcases which framed the entryway where Zimmers waited impatiently.

“We don’t have forever to dilly daddle, Harry.”

Harry had the guile to linger further, something Zimmers quickly took note of.

“Must I remind you. I’m not here as your friend. I’m here as your Head Boy. A Head Boy that has no reservation about taking House points from his own House.”

In a flash, Harry was by his side, his materials floating behind Zimmers in a parade as they exited the vicinity to Harry’s dismay.

“You can always come back. I’m sure Madame Pomfrey won’t mind.”

Harry smiled, and the older boy shook his head, marching down a set of stairs and another that literally stole Harry’s mental faculties the moment it moved.

“I have a feeling you haven’t read _Hogwarts: A History_.”

The raven-haired boy shook his head, while Zimmers frowned.

“Well, you best start learning how to read, if reading’s not your forte. Professor Binns won’t be of assistance in your O.W.L.S. nor your NEWTS”

Harry simply tilted his head in question, slightly insulted, but it seemed the Head Boy wasn’t privy to elaborate. 

Truly, was it too late not to get into Hufflepuff? 

Truly?

He cast a side glance at Igrham, and he saw the boy smirking.

 

❅❅❅

 

Professor Quirinus Quirrell was a character.

He stuttered and wrung his hands in a continuous loop. His head twitched frantically, and he paced an anxious rhythm that made Harry anxious himself. On more than one occasion, all the class could hear was his foot tapping on stone, dull thuds against the floor. Other times, it would be the solid end of his quill tapping on the edge of the desk which drove Harry to the verge of insanity. If it weren’t for Professor Quirrell’s suspiciously autistic inclinations, though Harry strongly believed it was more of the jitters than autism itself - or a byproduct of some nerve damage what with his profession - he was quite a lecturer.

“Mr. P-P-Potter!” 

Harry swung around, eyeing him carefully. There was that anxiety-induced wringing again. If it wasn’t the pacing, it was the hands!

“Yes?” he asked, noting the professor's other hand twitching and tapping against his desk. The remaining students sidestepped around him and scampered away to their next destinations. Harry noticed Draco hanging around the doorway and all Harry could do was send him off with an undignified wave of his hand. The blonde scowled at his antics. If he squinted, he could have sworn the boy was about to flash him the finger. The last he saw him was during his bouts between consciousness and unconsciousness.

“Y-Y-your condition?” Quirrell’s voice inquired with trepidation. “N-N-No adverse r-r-reaction? Nausea? Palpitations? D-D-Dizzy spells? Vomiting? Headaches? Tremors? P-P-Paralysis?!”

Harry blinked when it hit him that Quirrell squeaked the last part out. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be offended.

Laugh it was.

“Professor, no need to worry. I’ve had no such thing happen to me.”

Professor Quirrell nodded his head in affirmation. “Y-Y-Your voice. It s-s-sounds a-a-a d-d-decibel lower th-th-than usual.”

Harry cocked a brow, something Petunia would have scolded him for. “You visited?”

Quirrell twitched and nodded his head, though it only occurred to Harry why he would have. Igrham mentioned a Quirrell in passing. “H-h-had to! Was in c-c-collab-b-borration with P-P-Professors F-F-Flitwick and Sn-sna-snape f-f-for your we-we-we-well b-b-being!”

He was wringing his hands again, and Harry wanted to scream. It went on like that actually, coupled with the ensuing silence. The professor seemed to have forgetten there was a student there, and Harry almost got the impression that he was talking in his head if the minuscule muscle twitches - not from any muscle spasms or sudden nerve impulses - were any indication whatsoever. He also watched as the turban on his head moved left and right, and his mouth turned down in an almost carbon copy of the man in his dream, the man who looked like him.

Otherwise, this was his first encounter with the man. He didn’t have a chance to look at him during the Sorting because, of course, he passed out. Even if he did, he didn’t know who he was. As far as Harry could tell, he was fascinating alright, though this whole niche in the vastness that was the Planet Earth was the most fascinating thing his wildest imagination could never muster. Literally never. It was too vivid. Too three-dimensional for his own mind to create from scratch. It would explain why he was so forgiving about the peculiarities happening to him as opposed to if he were in the Muggle world. He knew for certain he would have felt differently in a similar though non-magical circumstances. For now, he was too caught up in simply absorbing. Fully comprehending would come later; the filters in his head shifting from shades of stoic and grave to enigmatic and hopeful.

It was why he was now left admiring something else yet again. The glimmering baubles and strange artifacts behind the professor's work desk were stunning. It almost looked like what Harry envisioned a museum for the magical world to be, but it was so much more than that. He could practically feel the stories just waiting to be told, and he was itching to know them as each piece called for him in repose. One particular amulet sung to him. It was the color of beautiful granite, the same texture and color an oyster had on its shell, but polished and glinting. 

He reached out a hand involuntary, his fingers inches away. He could almost feel the warm currents emanating from the piece, strong enough to get a reaction out of his Rosewood. That was until he felt a hand swat his fingers back to his side. Startled, he looked up to a set of unyielding cerulean that flashed crimson every now and again.

“Mr. Potter,” — he immediately noticed the lack of stuttering in his speech, just as quickly as he kept noticing those glowing, bright reds — “I don’t believe your innocent fingers should be _touching_ something like Death’s Embrace."

“Death’s Embrace?” Harry squeaked sotto voce though it sounded more like a huff with his voice still hoarse, but the professor heard him nonetheless, pinning him with a gaze that made him want to curl up and hide. 

“I travel for my studies. I find relics along my journey to contribute to my experimentations. I’m sure your Head Boy has mentioned as much?”

What was going on? 

“No? Pity.”

Quirrell crossed his arms behind his back and meandered away from him, though instead of the tapping Harry endured earlier, his footsteps were silent. He seemed to almost glide above the floor, movements delicate, and dare he say, graceful. As if he’d done this countless times before.

“Death’s Embrace is exactly how it sounds, Mr. Potter,” Quirrell murmured. “Without the proper barriers, instant death is without question.”

To demonstrate, the professor slid one of his desk drawers open and slipped on some work gloves over his fingers. Then, he pulled something else out. Something that looked awfully like a beast’s flesh. Without a second glance, he threw it over the amulet and all Harry heard was the sharp hiss as the skin bubbled on the surface and burst open, though it defied simple laws of nature. Instead of seeing a hole on the material, the material was charred as if a dragon had breathed fire into it. It left a ring behind in its wake that burnt and danced next to Harry, but the piece was intact.

Harry was conflicted between delight and horror.

“I was gifted this amulet in one of my travels to the Mediterranean, though I forgot exactly where and who had given it to me. Whether they provided it to me willingly, or this was my mind’s supplication to avoid the truth.”

The professor lifted the charred remains of flesh and vanished it from sight. He then grabbed the stone and circled it around his palms. There was a familiarity about those movements, but some people fiddled with things habitually. Or, at least, that was what he tried to convince himself. He watched as the amulet hissed at his gloves but remained intact. It would darken, but just as any magical phenomena, it defied logic and reverted back to its original hue: a deep cerulean. A cerulean that matched his eyes if it weren’t so red right now.

“All I know is of what it does, but there have been no publications to assert its existence. I’ve tried but to no avail. A mockery really,” he muttered sibilantly, speaking softer and softer that eventually Harry couldn’t hear the tail end of his monologue. He expected Quirrell to be laughing maniacally at this point, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the professor dipped back into what must have been his own world because the room quieted again, and with the lack of students in the classroom or out in the hallway, the atmosphere was suddenly stifling. It felt like he was back in that wand shop. He couldn’t put a finger to it, but it played with every feeling he had that he didn’t want. He wasn’t sure if these were emotions that were coming from him or the person projecting them. Because if it was the other, then all the more reason to flee as quickly as he could. 

“If you must keep a student. Do keep one who has the leisure to do so, or someone with the aptitude to understand you. You’re in my next class, are you not, Potter?”

As if he were splashed with cold water, Harry jumped. He came eye level with nothing but an endless expanse of black. Even when he made eye contact, all he saw was black.

And, for whatever reason, he’d never felt more safe in his life than he had in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not that important, but I was editing Voldie in a rush and didn't realize his hair looks like cheese LOL. I'm eventually going to have to redo him and Snape.
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> There's a lot of typos in here. Really sorry you guys. Edited this really quickly. Hopefully can go around to edit it better.


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